THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Peter  Scott 


V      ^ 


FEODOR'S  VISIT  TO  THE  GARDEN. 


THE 

MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN 


Qln  $i0toricai  JX 


BY 
L.    MOHLBACH 

AUTHOR   OF  JOSEPH   II.    AND   HIS  COURT 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  GERMAN  BY 

AMORY  COFFIN,   M.  D. 


FUNK  &  WAGNALLS  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 
1907 


COPYRIGHT   1866, 
BT  D    APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 

PAGE 

CHAP.  I.— The  Festival,  ......        5 

II. — The  Workman's  Holiday,             .            .            .  17 

III. — Brother  and  Sister,    .            .            .            .  .24 

IV. — Feodor  von  Brenda,         .            .            .            .  31 

V. — Mr.  Kretschraer,  of  the  "  Vossian  Gazette,"  .      38 

VI. — The  Cowards'  Race,          ....  46 

VII. — The  Interrupted  Festival,      .            .            .  .51 

VIII.— The  Leader  of  the  People,           .            ,            .  57 

IX. — The  Russian  is  at  the  Gates,  .            .            .  .62 

X. — Be  Prudent,           .....  66 

XI.— The  Night  of  Horrors,           .            .            .  .73 

XII. — Russians  and  Austrians,  80 

XIII. — A  Maiden's  Heart,      .            .           ,           .  .87 

XIV.— A  Faithful  Friend,           ....  98 

XV. — An  Unexpected  Meeting,       ....     102 

XVI.— The  Fugitive, 109 

XVII. — The  Eavesdropper,     .            .            .            .  114 

XVIII. — The  Two  Cannoneers,       .            .            .            .  119 

XIX. — Father  Gotzkowsky,  .           .           .  127 


BOOK  II. 

CHAP.  I.— The  Two  Editors,       .           .           .           .  .135 

II.— The  Chief  Magistrate  of  Berlin,             .           .  143 

III. — The  Russian,  the  Saxon,  and   the  Austrian,  in 

Berlin 150 

IV.— The  Cadets,     .            .            .            .            .  .157 

V. — The  Explosion,      .           .           .  164 


2227638 


iv  CONTENTS. 

PAGtK 

VI. — John  Gotzkowsky,      .  ,  .  .  .176 

VII.— The  Horrors  of  War,         .  .  .181 

VIII.— By  Chance,      .  .  .  .  .  .190 

IX. — Mistress  or  Maid  ?  197 

X. — An  Unexpected  Ally,  ....    207 

XL— The  Jew  Ephraim,  ....          215 

XII.— The  Russian  General  and  the  German  Man,  .    222 

XIII.— The  Execution,     .....          240 

XIV. — Bride  and  Daughter,  ....    247 

XV.— The  Rivals, 258 

XVI.— The  Punishment,        .  .  .  .  .264 

XVII.— The  Banquet  of  Gratitude,          .  .  .271 

XVIII.— A  Royal  Letter,          ...  .278 


BOOK  ill. 

CHAP.  L— Frederick  the  Great  at  Meissen,       -           .  .284 

II. — The  Winter-quarters  in  Leipsic,              .            .  302 

III.— The  Friend  in  Need,  .            .            .            .  .305 

IV. — Gratitude  and  Recompense,         .            .            .  314 

V.— Four  Years'  Labor,    .           .                       .  .317 

VI. — Days  of  Misfortune,          ....  320 

VII.— Confessions,     .            .            .            .            .  .329 

VIII.— The  Russian  Prince,         ....  334 

IX.— Old  Love— New  Sorrow,        .            .            .  .342 

X.— The  Magistracy  of  Berlin,  .  .  .354 

XL— The  Jews  of  the  Mint,            .            .            .  .362 

XII.— The  Leipsic  Merchant,      ....  366 

XIII.— Ephraim  the  Tempter,          .           .           .  .372 

XIV.— Elise 382 

XV.— The  Rescue,    .           .           .           .           .  .392 

XVL— Retribution,          .....  397 

XVIL— Tardy  Gratitude, 401 

XVIIL— The  Auction, 408 


1LLUSTKATIONS. 


FACING 
PAGE 

Feeder's  Visit  to  the  Garden  ....        Frontispiece 
The  Merchant  draws  Feodor  from  his  Hiding-place 

The  Rich  Jews  appeal  to  Gotzkowsky 

The  Great  Frederick  examining  the  Porcelain  Cup 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 


BOOK  I. 

CHAPTER   I. 

THE    FESTIVAL. 

THE  sufferings  of  the  long  war  still  continued;  still 
stood  Frederick  the  Great  with  his  army  in  the  field; 
the  tremendous  struggle  between  Prussia  and  Austria 
was  yet  undecided,  and  Silesia  was  still  the  apple  of  dis- 
cord for  which  Maria  Theresa  and  Frederick  II.  had 
been  striving  for  years,  and  for  which,  in  so  many  bat- 
tles, the  blood  of  German  brothers  had  been  spilt. 

Everywhere  joy  seemed  extinguished;  the  light  jest 
was  hushed;  each  one  looked  silently  into  the  future, 
and  none  could  tell  in  whose  favor  this  great  contest 
would  finally  be  decided,  whether  Austria  or  Prussia 
would  be  victorious. 

The  year  1760,  the  fifth  of  the  war,  was  particularly 
sad  for  Prussia;  it  was  marked  in  the  history  of  Germany 
with  tears  and  blood.  Even  Berlin  which,  up  to  that 
time,  had  suffered  but  little  from  the  unhappy  calami- 
ties of  war,  assumed  now  an  earnest,  mournful  aspect, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  the  bright  humor  and  sarcastic  wit 
which  had  always  characterized  the  inhabitants  of  this 
good  city  had  now  entirely  deserted  them.  Going 
through  the  wide  and  almost  empty  streets  there  were 
to  be  met  only  sad  countenances,  women  clothed  in  black 

5 


6  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

who  mourned  their  husbands  or  sons  fallen  in  one  of  the 
many  battles  of  this  war,  or  mothers  who  were  looking 
with  anxiety  into  the  future  and  thinking  of  their  dis- 
tant sons  who  had  gone  to  the  army. 

Here  and  there  was  seen  some  wounded  soldier  wea- 
rily dragging  himself  along  the  street,  but  hearty, 
healthy  men  were  seldom  to  be  met,  and  still  more  sel- 
dom was  seen  the  fresh  countenance  of  youth. 

Berlin  had  been  obliged  to  send  not  only  her  men 
and  youths,  but  also  her  boys  of  fourteen  years  to  the 
army,  which,  according  to  the  confession  of  Frederick 
the  Great,  consisted,  in  the  campaign  of  the  year  1760, 
only  of  renegades,  marauders,  and  beardless  boys. 

For  these  reasons  it  seemed  the  more  strange  to  hear 
at  this  time  issuing  from  one  of  the  largest  and  hand- 
somest houses  on  the  Leipsic  Street  the  unwonted  sounds 
of  merry  dance-music,  cheerful  singing  and  shouting, 
which  reached  the  street. 

The  passers-by  stopped  and  looked  with  curiosity  up 
to  the  windows,  at  which  could  be  seen  occasionally  a 
flushed  joyous  man's  face  or  pretty  woman's  head.  But 
the  men  who  were  visible  through  the  panes  evidently 
did  not  belong  to  the  genteel er  classes  of  society;  their 
faces  were  sunburnt,  their  hair  hung  down  carelessly 
and  unpowdered  upon  the  coarse  and  unfashionable 
cloth  coat,  and  the  attire  of  the  maidens  had  little  in 
common  with  the  elegance  and  fashion  of  the  day. 

"  The  rich  Gotzkowsky  gives  a  great  feast  to  his 
workmen  to-day,"  remarked  the  people  in  the  street  to 
one  another;  and  as  they  passed  on  they  envied  with 
a  sigh  those  who  were  able  at  the  same  time  to  enjoy  a 
merry  day  in  the  rich  and  brilliant  halls  of  the  great 
manufacturer,  and  admire  the  splendor  of  the  rich  man's 
house. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  7 

The  mansion  of  Gotzkowsky  was  indeed  one  of  the 
handsomest  and  most  magnificent  in  all  Berlin,  and  its 
owner  was  one  of  the  richest  men  of  this  city,  then, 
despite  the  war,  so  wealthy  and  thriving.  But  it  was 
not  the  splendor  of  the  furniture,  of  the  costly  silver 
ware,  of  the  Gobelin  tapestry  and  Turkish  carpets  which 
distinguished  this  house  from  all  others.  In  these  re- 
spects others  could  equal  the  rich  merchant,  or  even  sur- 
pass him. 

But  Gotzkowsky  possessed  noble  treasures  of  art, 
costly  paintings,  which  princes  and  even  kings  might 
have  envied.  Several  times  had  he  travelled  to  Italy  by 
commission  from  the  king  to  purchase  paintings,  and 
the  handsomest  pieces  in  the  Royal  Gallery  had  been 
brought  from  the  land  of  art  by  Gotzkowsky.  But  the 
last  time  he  returned  from  Italy  the  war  of  1756  had 
broken  out,  and  the  king  could  then  spare  no  money  for 
the  purchase  of  paintings:  he  needed  it  all  for  his  army. 
Therefore  Gotzkowsky  was  obliged  to  keep  for  him- 
self the  splendid  originals  of  Raphael,  Rubens,  and  other 
great  masters  which  he  had  purchased  at  enormous 
prices,  and  the  wealthy  manufacturer  was  just  the  one 
able  to  afford  himself  the  luxury  of  a  picture  gallery. 

The  homely  artisans  and  workmen  who  this  day 
had  dined  in  Gotzkowsky's  halls  felt  somewhat  con- 
strained and  uncomfortable,  and  their  countenances  did 
not  wear  a  free,  joyous  expression  until  they  had  risen 
from  table,  and  the  announcement  was  made  that 
the  festival  would  continue  in  the  large  garden  imme- 
diately adjacent  to  the  house,  to  which  they  at  once  re- 
paired to  enjoy  cheerful  games  and  steaming  coffee. 

Bertram,  Gotzkowsky's  head  book-keeper,  had  been 
commissioned  by  him  to  lead  the  company,  consisting  of 
more  than  two  hundred  persons,  into  the  garden,  where 


8  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

Gotzkowsky  would  follow  them,  having  first  gone  in 
search  of  his  daughter. 

With  lively  conversation  and  hearty  laugh  the  peo- 
ple retired,  the  halls  were  emptied,  and  now  the  deep 
silence  of  these  state-apartments  was  only  interrupted 
by  the  gentle  ticking  of  the  large  clock  which  stood  over 
the  sofa  on  its  handsomely  ornamented  stand. 

When  Gotzkowsky  found  himself  at  last  alone,  he 
breathed  as  if  relieved.  The  quiet  seemed  to  do  him 
good.  He  sank  down  into  one  of  the  large  chairs  cov- 
ered with  gold-embroidered  velvet,  and  gazed  earnestly 
and  thoughtfully  before  him.  The  expression  of  his 
countenance  was  anxious,  and  his  large  dark  eyes  were 
not  as  clear  and  brilliant  as  usual. 

John  Gotzkowsky  was  still  a  handsome  man,  despite 
his  fifty  years;  his  noble  intellectual  countenance,  his 
tall  proud  figure,  his  full  black  hair,  which,  contrary  to 
the  custom  of  that  period,  he  wore  unpowdered,  made 
an  imposing  and  at  the  same  time  pleasing  impression. 

And  certainly  it  was  not  because  of  his  personal  ap- 
pearance that  Gotzkowsky,  notwithstanding  the  early 
death  of  his  wife,  had  never  contracted  a  second  mar- 
riage, but  had  preferred  to  remain  a  solitary  widower. 
Nor  did  this  occur  from  indifference  or  coldness  of  heart, 
but  solely  from  the  love  for  that  little,  helpless,  love- 
needing  being,  whose  birth  had  cost  his  young  wife  her 
life,  to  whom  he  had  vowed  at  the  bedside  of  her  dead 
mother  to  stand  in  stead  of  that  mother,  and  never  to 
make  her  bend  under  the  harsh  rule  of  a  step-mother. 
Gotzkowsky  had  faithfully  fulfilled  his  vow;  he  had  con- 
centrated all  his  love  on  his  daughter,  who  under  his 
careful  supervision  had  increased  in  strength  and  beauty, 
so  that  with  the  pride  and  joy  of  a  father  he  now  styled 
her  the  handsomest  jewel  of  his  house. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  9 

Where  then  was  this  daughter  whom  he  loved  so 
dearly?  Why  was  she  not  near  him  to  smile  away  the 
wrinkles  from  his  brow,  to  drive  with  light  chat  serious 
and  gloomy  thoughts  from  his  mind  ?  She  it  was,  doubt- 
less, whom  his  wandering  glance  sought  in  these  vast, 
silent  rooms;  and  finding  her  not,  and  yearning  in  vain 
for  her  sweet  smiles,  her  rosy  cheeks,  he  sighed. 

Where  was  she  then? 

Like  her  father,  Gotzkowsky's  daughter  sat  alone 
in  her  room — her  gaze,  as  his,  fixed  upon  empty  space. 
The  sad,  melancholy  expression  of  her  face,  scarcely 
tinged  with  a  delicate  blush,  contrasted  strangely  with 
her  splendid  dress,  her  mournful  look  with  the  full 
wreath  of  roses  which  adorned  her  hair. 

Elise  was  the  daughter  of  the  wealthiest  man  in 
Berlin,  the  world  proclaimed  her  the  handsomest 
maiden,  and  yet  there  she  sat  solitary  in  her  beautiful 
chamber,  her  eyes  clouded  with  tears.  Of  a  sudden  she 
drew  a  golden  case  from  her  bosom  and  pressed  it  with 
deep  feeling  to  her  lips.  Looking  timidly  at  the  door 
she  seemed  to  listen;  convinced  that  no  one  approached, 
she  pressed  a  hidden  spring  of  the  medallion;  the 
golden  cover  flew  open  and  disclosed  the  portrait  of  a 
handsome  man  in  Russian  uniform. 

The  young  girl  contemplated  this  portrait  with  a 
strange  mixture  of  delight  and  melancholy,  and  then, 
completely  overpowered  by  its  aspect,  she  approached 
it  to  her  lips.  "  Feodor!  "  murmured  she,  so  softly  that 
it  sounded  almost  like  a  sigh,  and  stretching  out  the 
hand  which  held  the  medallion,  in  order  to  be  able 
better  to  contemplate  the  picture,  she  continued— 

"  Feodor,  why  did  we  meet,  to  be  separated  forever 
again?  Why  did  not  Fate  allow  me  to  be  born  as  a  poor 
serf  upon  one  of  thy  estates,  giving  to  thee  the  right  to 


10  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

possess  me,  to  me  the  sweet  duty  of  loving  thee?  0 
Heaven,  why  art  thou  an  enemy  of  my  country,  or  why 
am  I  a  German?  Men  call  me,  happy;  they  envy  me 
my  father's  wealth;  they  know  not  how  wretched  and 
forsaken  I  am." 

She  bowed  her  head  upon  her  breast  and  wept  bit- 
terly. Suddenly  steps  were  heard  quite  close  to  her 
door.  She  started,  and  concealed  the  medallion  quick- 
ly in  her  breast.  "  My  father,"  murmured  she,  and  dry- 
ing her  tears  she  arose  to  open  the  door.  She  was  right, 
it  was  her  father.  He  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  She 
took  it  and  pressed  it  to  her  lips  respectfully,  but  she  did 
not  see  the  look  of  almost  passionate  tenderness  with 
which  he  regarded  her,  for  she  had  cast  down  her  eyes 
and  did  not  dare  to  look  at  him. 

"  I  have  come,  Elise,  to  lead  you  to  our  garden  fes- 
tival. You  will  go  with  me,  my  child  ?  " 

"  I  am  ready,"  said  she,  taking  her  hat  and  shawl. 

"  But  why  in  such  a  hurry,  my  child  ?  "  asked  her 
father.  "  Let  us  leave  these  good  people  yet  a  little 
while  to  themselves.  We  will  still  be  in  time  to  witness 
their  games.  I  would  like  to  stay  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
with  you,  Elise." 

Without  answering,  she  rolled  an  arm-chair  to  the 
window,  and  laid  aside  her  hat  and  shawl. 

"  It  is  very  seldom,  father,  that  you  make  me  such  a 
present,"  said  she. 

"  What  present,  my  child?  " 

"  A  quarter  of  an  hour  of  your  life,  father." 

"You  are  right,"  said  he,  thoughtfully.  "I  have 
little  time  for  pleasure,  but  I  think  so  much  the  more 
of  you." 

She  shook  her  head  gently. 

"  No,"  said  she,  "  you  have  no  time  to  think  of  me. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  H 

You  are  too  busy.  Hundreds  of  men  claim  your  atten- 
tion. How  could  you  have  time,  father,  to  think  of 
your  daughter?  " 

Gotzkowsky  drew  a  dark-red  case  from  his  breast 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  her. 

"  Look,  Elise!  see  if  I  have  not  thought  of  you. 
To-day  is  your  birthday,  and  I  have  celebrated  it  as  I 
have  done  every  year  by  giving  my  workmen  a  festival, 
and  endowing  a  poor  bridal  pair  who  on  this  day  become 
betrothed.  Their  prayers  and  tears  constitute  the  most 
beautiful  thank-offering  to  you,  and  being  happy  they 
bless  you,  the  authoress  of  their  happiness.  But  how  is 
this?  You  have  not  yet  opened  the  case.  Are  you  so 
little  like  other  girls  that  diamonds  cause  you  no  pleas- 
ure?" 

She  opened  the  case,  and  contemplated  the  jewels 
with  weary  looks  and  scarcely  concealed  indifference. 

"  How  wonderfully  they  shine  and  sparkle,  and  what 
tempting  promises  their  brilliant  colors  hold  forth! 
But  this  is  a  princely  present,  father;  your  poor  Elise 
it  not  worthy  to  wear  this  diadem  and  collar." 

"Oh,  you  are  worthy  to  wear  a  crown!  "  cried  her 
father  with  tender  pride.  "  And  let  me  tell  you,  my 
child,  you  have  only  to  choose  whether  you  will  place  on 
this  beautiful  hair  an  earl's  coronet  or  a  prince's  diadem. 
And  this,  my  child,  is  the  reason  of  my  visit  to-day." 

"  On  business,"  murmured  she,  almost  inaudibly, 
with  a  bitter  smile. 

Gotzkowsky  continued — 

"  Young  Count  Saldem  applied  to  me  yesterday  for 
your  hand." 

"Count  Saldem?"  asked  Elise.  "I  hardly  know 
him.  I  have  only  spoken  to  him  twice  in  the  saloon  of 
Countess  Herzberg/' 


12  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  That  does  not  prevent  him  from  loving  you  ardent- 
ly/' said  Gotzkowsky,  with  scarcely  perceptible  irony. 
"  Yes,  Elise,  he  loves  you  so  ardently  that  he  would 
overcome  all  obstacles  of  rank  and  make  you  a  genuine 
countess,  if  I  will  only  promise  to  endow  you  with  half 
a  million." 

The  habitually  pale  countenance  of  Elise  suddenly 
assumed  life  and  color.  She  drew  herself  up  and 
threw  her  head  proudly  back. 

"Do  you  wish  to  sell  me,  father?  Do  you  wish  to 
give  some  value  to  this  noble  nonentity  by  the  present 
of  half  a  million,  and  will  his  lordship  be  kind  enough 
in  return  to  take  the  trifling  burden  of  my  person  into 
the  bargain  ?  " 

Her  father  gazed  at  her  glowing  countenance  with 
eyes  beaming  with  joy;  but  he  quickly  suppressed  this 
emotion,  and  reassumed  a  serious  air. 

"  Yes,"  he  said,  "  the  good  count,  in  consideration 
of  half  a  million,  will  consent  to  raise  the  manufacturer's 
daughter  to  the  rank  of  a  countess.  But  for  a  whole 
million  we  can  obtain  still  more;  we  can  rise  yet  higher 
in  the  scale.  If  I  will  advance  his  uncle,  Prince  Saldem, 
half  a  million  to  redeem  his  mortgaged  estates,  the 
prince  promises  to  adopt  the  nephew,  your  suitor,  as  his 
son.  You  would  then  be  a  princess,  Elise,  and  I  would 
have  the  proud  satisfaction  of  calling  a  prince  my  son." 

"  As  if  the  king  would  consent  to  a  nobleman  thus 
demeaning  himself! "  cried  Elise;  "  as  if  he  would 
graciously  allow  the  count  so  far  to  degrade  himself!  " 

"  Oh,  the  king  will  consent,"  continued  her  father 
in  a  light  tone.  "You  know  that  he  is  fond  of  me. 
Only  say  whether  you  consent  to  become  Countess  Sal- 
dem." 

"  Never!  "  cried  she  proudly.     "  I  am  no  chattel  to 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  13 

be  bartered,  and  this  miserable  title  of  princess  has  no 
charms  for  me.  You  can  command  me,  father,  to  re- 
nounce the  man  I  love,  but  you  can  never  compel  me  to 
give  my  hand  to  a  man  I  do  not  love,  were  he  even  a 
king! " 

Her  father  clasped  her  vehemently  in  his  arms. 

"  That  is  Wood  of  my  blood,  and  spirit  of  :uy  spirit," 
cried  he.  "  You  are  right,  my  child,  to  despise  honors 
and  titles;  they  are  empty  tinsel,  and  no  one  believes  in 
them  any  longer.  We  stand  at  the  portal  of  a  new  era, 
and  this  era  will  erect  new  palaces  and  create  new 
princes;  but  you,  my  child,  will  be  one  of  the  first  prin- 
cesses of  this  new  era.  Manufactories  will  be  the  new 
palaces,  and  manufacturers  the  new  princes.  Instead 
of  the  sword,  money  will  rule  the  world,  and  men  will 
bow  down  before  manufacturers  and  merchants  as  they 
are  wont  to  do  before  generals.  Therefore  I  say  you 
are  right  in  refusing  Prince  Saldem's  offer,  for  I  promise 
you,  you  shall  be  a  princess,  even  without  the  title,  and 
the  great  and  noble  shall  bow  as  low  before  your  riches  as 
if  they  were  a  ducal  diadem." 

Elise  shook  her  head  with  a  melancholy  smile:  "  I 
have  no  desire  for  such  homage,  and  I  despise  the  base 
metal  with  which  you  can  buy  everything." 

"  Despise  it  not!  "  cried  her  father,  "  prize  it  rather! 
Gold  is  a  holy  power;  it  is  the  magic  wand  of  Moses 
which  caused  springs  to  gush  forth  from  the  sterile 
rock.  See,  my  child — I,  who  despise  all  the  rank  and 
honors  which  the  world  can  offer  me,  I  tell  you  gold 
is  the  only  thing  for  which  I  have  any  respect.  But  a 
man  must  perceive  and  understand  the  secret  of  this 
magic  power.  He  who  strives  for  wealth  only  to  possess 
it  is  a  heartless  fool,  and  his  fate  will  be  that  of  Midas — 
he  will  starve  in  the  midst  of  his  treasures.  But  he  who 


14:  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

strives  for  wealth  for  the  purpose  of  giving,  he  will  dis- 
cover that  money  is  the  fountain  of  happiness;  and  in 
his  hands  the  dead  metal  is  transformed  into  a  living 
blessing.  You  may  believe  your  father,  who  knows  the 
world,  and  who  has  drunk  the  bitter  cup  of  poverty." 

"  You  were  once  poor?  "  asked  Elise,  looking  at  her 
father  with  astonishment. 

Gotzkowsky  smiled,  and  sank  back  in  his  chair,  mus- 
ing and  silent.  After  a  pause  he  resumed:  "Yes,  I 
was  poor.  I  have  endured  all  the  horrors  of  poverty. 
I  have  hungered  and  thirsted,  suffered  misery  and  priva- 
tion, even  as  a  little  boy.  Thus  lay  I  once,  wretched 
and  forsaken,  in  a  ditch  by  the  highway,  and  raised  my 
hands  to  God  on  high,  praying  but  for  a  drop  of  water, 
but  for  a  morsel  of  bread.  Ah!  so  strong  was  the  be- 
lief of  the  goodness  of  God  in  my  heart,  that  I  was  con- 
vinced He  would  open  the  heavens,  and  reach  to  me  with 
His  own  hand  the  food  for  which  I  prayed.  I  waited 
and  waited,  in  despairing  anxiety,  but  the  heavens  were 
not  opened,  and  not  even  a  drop  of  rain  came  to  cool  my 
parched  lips.  But  the  cloud,  which  I  had  looked  for  in 
vain  in  the  sky,  was  seen  at  last  on  the  highway,  and,  as 
I  saw  this  whirling  cloud  of  dust,  in  the  midst  of  which 
a  splendid  equipage  came  rolling  on,  I  said  to  myself: 
'  Here  comes  God! '  and  then  I  found  strength  enough 
to  raise  myself  from  my  knees,  to  hurry  toward  the 
rapidly  passing  vehicle,  and  to  cry  with  a  voice  which 
was  almost  overpowered  by  the  noise  of  the  wheels, 
*  Pity!  pity!  give  me  a  morsel  of  bread,  a  drop  of  water! 
Have  pity  on  me! '  A  hand  was  stretched  toward  me 
out  of  the  cloud  of  dust,  and  I  saw  a  small,  brightly  shin' 
ing  object  drop.  The  carriage  rolled  on,  and  disappeared 
in  its  cloud.  But  I  sank  on  my  knees  and  searched  the 
dust  for  the  piece  of  money,  for  in  this  coin  lay  for 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        15 

me  life,  health,  and  strength.  I  was  obliged  to  hunt  in 
the  dust  for  a  long  time  with  hands  tremulous  with  anx- 
iety, and  finally,  when  I  found  it,  I  rejoiced  aloud  and 
thanked  God.  Then  I  hurried  with  ileet  steps  toward 
the  neighboring  town,  to  the  same  baker's  shop  near  the 
gate,  where,  shortly  before,  they  had  refused  to  my  en- 
treaties a  bit  of  bread.  Now,  willingly  and  with  smiles, 
they  handed  me  a  loaf,  for  I  had  money  to  pay  for  it. 
In  that  hour  I  said  to  myself:  '  I  must  seek  money,  even 
if  I  have  to  grovel  in  the  dust  for  it;  for  money  is  life, 
and  poverty  is  death! '  The  hand  which,  from  the 
cloud  of  dust  threw  me  that  piece  of  money,  decided 
my  whole  future,  for  it  taught  me  that  even  dust  was  not 
to  be  despised,  as  therein  money  might  be  found;  but  it 
taught  me  something  more — it  taught  me  compassion 
and  charity.  Then,  as  I  crouched  down  with  bleeding 
feet  at  the  street-corner  and  devoured  my  loaf,  I  vowed 
to  myself  that  I  would  become  rich,  and  when  I  had 
grown  rich,  to  be  to  each  poor  and  needy  one  the  helping 
hand  stretched  forth  out  of  the  cloud  of  dust." 

Elise  had  listened  to  her  father  with  deep  emotion, 
and  in  the  depth  of  her  heart  she  at  this  moment  ab- 
solved him  from  many  a  silent  reproach,  and  many  a 
suspicion,  which  her  soul  had  harbored  against  him. 

"You  have  kept  your  word,  my  father!  "  cried  she. 
"How  did  you  contrive  to  become  a  rich  man  from  a 
beggar?  " 

Gotzkowsky  laughed.  "  How  did  I  contrive  that?  " 
said  he.  "I  worked,  that  is  the  whole  secret — worked 
from  sunrise  until  late  in  the  night,  and  by  work  alone 
have  I  become  what  I  am.  But  no,  I  had  one  friend 
who  often  helped  me  with  his  sympathy  and  valuable 
counsel.  This  friend  was  the  king.  He  protected  me 
against  my  malicious  enemies,  who  envied  me  every  little 


16  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

piece  of  fortune.  He  cheered  me  on.  Frederick's  eye 
rested  on  me  with  pleasure,  and  he  was  delighted  to  see 
my  manufactories  thrive  and  increase.  The  king's  satis- 
faction was  for  many  years  the  only  spur  to  my  exertions, 
and  when  he  looked  on  me  with  smiling  benevolence, 
it  seemed  to  me  as  if  a  sunbeam  of  fortune  shone  from 
his  large  blue  eyes  into  my  heart.  I  have  learned  to 
love  the  king  as  a  man,  and  because  I  love  mankind  I 
love  the  king.  It  is  said  that  he  likes  the  French  better 
than  he  does  us,  and  prefers  every  thing  that  comes  from 
them;  but,  indeed,  he  was  the  first  to  supply  his  wants 
from  my  manufactories,  and  in  that  way  to  encourage  me 
to  new  undertakings.*  Mankind,  in  general,  do  not 
like  to  see  others  favored  by  fortune  in  their  enterprises, 
and  they  hate  him  who  succeeds  where  they  have  failed. 
I  have  experienced  that  often  in  life.  I  knew  that  men 
hated  me  because  I  was  more  fortunate  than  they  were, 
and  yet  I  saw  how  they  cringed  before  me,  and  nat- 
tered me.  Oh,  my  child,  how  many  bitter  and  painful 
experiences  do  I  not  owe  to  my  wealth!  In  wealth  lies 
Wisdom,  if  one  would  only  listen  to  her.  It  has  humbled 
and  subdued  me,  for  I  said  to  myself,  '  How  quickly 
would  all  these  men  who  now  surround  me  with  atten- 
tion and  flattery,  disappear  if  I  became  suddenly  poor! ' 
These  princes  and  counts,  who  now  invite  me  as  a  guest 
to  their  tables,  would  no  longer  know  me  if  I  appeared 
before  them  as  a  poor  man.  Wealth  is  rank  and  worth ; 
and  no  prince's  title,  no  star  of  honor,  shines  so  brightly 
as  golden  coin.  But  we  must  learn  how  to  use  it,  and 

*"  Gotzkowsky  founded  the  first  large  velvet  and  silk  manufac- 
tories in  Berlin.  He  was  also  the  first  to  attend  the  Leipsic  fair 
with  domestic  goods,  and  thus  open  the  commerce  with  Poland  and 
Russia." — History  of  a  Patriotic  Merchant  of  Berlin.  1768,  pages 
10-12. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  17 

not  convert  the  means  of  fortune  into  the  end.  We  must 
also  learn  to  despise  men,  and  yet  to  love  mankind.  My 
philosophy  may  be  condensed  into  a  few  sentences. 
Strive  for  gold;  not  to  take,  but  to  give.  Be  kind  and 
faithful  to  all  men;  most  faithful,  however,  to  thyself, 
thy  honor,  and  thy  country." 

Elise  looked  at  him  with  a  strange  expression:  '•  You 
love  all  mankind!  Do  you  then  include  our  country's 
enemies?  " 

"  The  enemies  of  our  country  are  the  only  men  whom 
I  hate,"  cried  Gotzkowsky  quickly. 

"  Even  were  they  noble  and  good?  "  asked  Elise  with 
reproachful  tone. 

Gotzkowsky  looked  at  her  with  astonishment  and 
curiosity,  and  a  cloud  flitted  across  his  brow.  Then, 
as  if  shocked  at  his  own  thoughts,  he  shook  his  head,  and 
murmured  in  a  low  tone,  "  No,  that  were  too  terrible!  " 
He  rose  and  paced  the  room  in  thoughtful  mood.  Sud- 
denly a  burst  of  lively  music  and  gleeful  shouts  were 
heard  from  the  garden.  Gotzkowsky's  brow  brightened 
immediately,  and  he  extended  his  hand  with  a  tender 
look. 

"  Come,  my  child,"  exclaimed  he,  "  come,  and  see 
how  happy  you  have  made  men!  Come,  and  see  the 
power  of  wealth!  " 


CHAPTER    II. 
THE  WORKMAN'S  HOLIDAY. 

THE  garden,  which  stretched  from  behind  Gotz- 
kowsky's house  to  the  limits  of  the  city,  was  really  of 
artistic  beauty,  and  he  had  spent  thousands  in  creating  a 


18  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

park  out  of  this  dead  level  of  sand.  Now,  his  work  was 
completed,  and  all  Berlin  spoke  with  praise  and  admira- 
tion of  this  garden,  which  ranked  among  the  lions  to  be 
visited  by  every  traveller.  The  most  splendid  groups  of 
trees  were  seen  here  and  there,  interspersed  among  green 
plats  of  grass,  ornamented  by  marble  statues  or  graceful 
fountains;  in  other  places,  trimmed  hedges  stretched 
along,  and  from  the  conservatories  exotic  plants  filled 
the  air  with  perfume. 

On  this  day,  however,  the  garden  presented  a  pe- 
culiarly lively  spectacle.  On  the  lawn,  the  young  girls 
and  lads  were  dancing  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle  and  bass- 
viol,  while  the  older  workmen  and  their  wives  had  seated 
themselves  around  tables,  on  which  all  kinds  of  refresh- 
ments were  spread. 

At  the  largest  of  these  tables,  ornamented  with  flow- 
ers, was  seated  the  betrothed  couple,  the  workman  Bal- 
thazar and  Gretchen  his  young  bride,  who  bashfully  and 
affectionately  clung  to  his  side.  They  had  loved  each 
other  long  and  faithfully  in  silence,  but  without  hope, 
for  they  were  both  poor,  and  had  to  support  themselves 
and  their  parents  by  the  work  of  their  hands.  But  Gotz- 
kowsky  had  come  to  them  as  a  helping  benefactor;  he 
had  given  Balthazar  a  considerable  sum  of  money,  and 
his  daughter  Elise  had  bestowed  a  dower  upon  the  bride. 
On  this  day,  Elise's  eighteenth  birthday,  was  to  be  cele- 
brated the  marriage  of  the  happy  couple.  No  wonder, 
then,  that  they  regarded  Gotzkowsky  with  feelings  al- 
most of  adoration,  and  that  this  young  girl  appeared  to 
them  as  a  benevolent  angel. 

Elise  had  just  come  into  the  garden  with  her  father, 
and  had  taken  her  seat  at  the  table  of  the  bridal  pair. 
Next  to  her  sat  a  young  man,  whose  mild  and  noble 
countenance  seemed  to  be  lighted  up  with  happiness 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  19 

and  adoration  whenever  he  looked  upon  her.  He  fol- 
lowed every  one  of  her  motions  with  watchful  eyes,  and 
the  most  trifling  shade,  the  slightest  change  in  the  ex- 
pression of  her  countenance,  did  not  escape  him.  At 
times  he  sighed,  reading  perhaps  in  her  features  the 
secret  thoughts  of  her  soul,  and  these  thoughts  saddened 
him,  and  clouded  his  bright  clear  eye. 

This  young  man,  who  sat  at  Elise's  side,  was  Ber- 
tram, Gotzkowsky's  head  book-keeper.  From  his  ear- 
liest youth  he  had  been  in  the  house  of  the  rich  manu- 
facturer, who  had  adopted  the  poor  orphan,  and  treated 
him  as  a  tender  father  would  have  done,  and  Bertram 
loved  him  with  all  the  affection  of  a  son.  And  never  by 
the  lips  of  a  true  son  was  the  name  of  father  pronounced 
with  more  warmth  and  tenderness  than  by  this  son, 
adopted  and  won  by  deeds  of  generosity. 

But  Bertram,  who  called  Gotzkowsky  father,  had 
never  ventured  to  call  Gotzkowsky's  daughter  sister. 
Brought  up  together,  they  had  in  their  childhood  shared 
their  games,  their  childish  joys  and  sorrows  with  one 
another;  he  had  been  a  protecting  brother  to  her,  she  an 
affectionate  sister  to  him.  But  ever  since  Bertram  had 
returned  from  a  journey  of  three  years,  which  Gotz- 
kowsky had  caused  him  to  make,  all  this  had  changed. 
Elise,  whom  he  had  left  almost  a  child,  he  found  on  his 
return  a  blooming  young  woman,  and  a  feeling  of  joy- 
ous emotion  flashed  through  him  as  he  stood  blushing 
before  her;  while  she,  perfectly  collected,  with  a  quiet 
look  bade  him  welcome. 

Under  the  charm  of  this  look  he  had  lived  several 
weeks  of  rapture  and  yet  of  anxiety.  He  soon  felt  that 
he  loved  this  young  girl  passionately,  but  he  also  felt 
that  she  returned  his  passion  with  the  lukewarm  affec- 
tion of  a  friend  or  a  sister,  and  that  she  had  no  suspicion 


20  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

of  the  tumult  and  pain,  the  joy  and  ecstasy  which  filled 
his  breast.  And  yet  he  had  a  right  to  strive  for  the 
prize  of  her  love;  and  if  he  raised  his  eyes  to  the  daugh- 
ter of  his  benefactor,  it  was  not  presumption,  it  was 
Gotzkowsky  himself  who  emboldened  him  to  do  so.  He 
had  said  to  him,  "  Seek  to  win  the  love  of  my  daughter, 
and  I  will  cheerfully  bid  you  welcome  as  my  son,  for  I 
know  that  in  your  hands  Elise's  happiness  is  safe." 

Thus  he  had  the  consent  of  her  father,  but  Elise's 
love  was  wanting,  and  how  could  he  ever  deserve  this 
love,  how  win  this  heart  which  shone  as  bright  and 
clear,  as  hard  and  cold  as  rock  crystal?  Of  what  avail 
was  it  that  he  worked  indefatigably  in  the  service  of  his 
benefactor?  how  did  it  help  him  that  the  money,  which 
Gotzkowsky  had  given  to  him  as  a  boy,  had  borne  rich 
interest  and  made  him  a  man  of  means,  and  even,  if  he 
chose,  of  independence?  What  did  it  profit  him  that 
all  men  loved  him,  if  this  one  being,  by  whom  he  so 
ardently  longed  to  be  loved,  always  remained  the  same, 
unchanged  toward  him,  always  affectionate  and  friendly, 
always  open  and  candid,  never  abashed,  never  blushing, 
never  casting  her  eyes  down  before  him? 

"  It  must  at  last  be  decided,"  thought  Bertram,  as 
he  sat  next  Elise;  "I  must  at  last  know  whether  she 
returns  my  love,  or  whether  that  be  true  which  I  have 
heard  whispered  since  my  return.  I  must  at  least  have 
certainty,  even  if  it  annihilates  all  my  wishes." 

At  this  moment  there  sounded  near  him  merry 
shouts  and  laughter.  Gotzkowsky  had  accosted  the 
bridal  pair  with  a  jest,  and  the  grateful  audience  had 
taken  up  this  jest  with  delight. 

"  Long  life  to  the  bridal  pair! "  cried  he,  raising  his 
glass  on  high.  "Health,  wealth,  and  happiness  to 
them! "  A  perfect  uproar  followed  this  appeal,  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        21 

brought  tears  of  delight  into  the  eyes  of  the  blushing 
little  bride,  who  stood  up  with  the  bridegroom  and 
bowed  her  thanks. 

Balthazar  laughed,  and,  as  soon  as  every  thing  had 
become  quiet,  replied:  "  There,  that  will  do!  you  have 
hurrahed  enough.  I  don't  wish  for  wealth;  health, 
happiness,  and  content  are  enough  for  me  with  my  little; 
Gretchen;  but  for  these  blessings  I  have  to  thank,  we 
have  all  to  thank,  our  lord  and  master,  our  father  Gotz- 
kowsky.  Therefore,  you  boys  up  there,  stop  your  clat- 
ter and  dancing,  and  listen  to  what  I  have  to  say  to 
you." 

Balthazar's  loud  clear  voice  overpowered  the  music 
which  now  ceased,  and  the  lads  and  maidens  crowded 
around  him. 

"Balthazar  is  going  to  make  a  speech!"  cried  one 
with  hearty  laughter,  in  which  the  others  joined  lustily. 
"  Silence,  silence!  Balthazar  is  going  to  make  a  speech. 
Come,  Balthazar,  out  with  it!  It's  a  failing  he  has." 

"  Well,  why  shouldn't  I?  "  said  Belthazar,  laughing; 
"  many  a  great  lord  does  nothing  else  all  his  life  but 
make  pretty  speeches.  Why  shouldn't  I  play  the  great 
lord  on  this  my  wedding-day?"  He  drew  himself  up, 
cleared  his  throat,  and  continued :  "  I  want  to  talk  to 
you  about  our  master,  who  turned  us  from  good-for- 
nothing  drones  into  industrious  workmen,  who  gave 
us  bread  when  nobody  else  had  bread  for  us.  Nobody, 
I  say,  not  even  our  mayor,  who  is  a  very  good  mayor, 
but  who  cannot  help  the  poor,  feed  the  hungry,  and 
give  bread  and  work  to  hands  willing  to  work.  Who 
is  able  to  do  that,  and  who  does  it?  Who  in  Berlin  is 
the  rich,  the  good  man,  who  gives  work  to  all,  and  in 
his  large  and  celebrated  mills  procures  us  food  and 
wages?  Who  is  it?" 


22  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

"  Gotzkowsky,  our  father  Gotzkowsky!  "  cried  the 
crowd  unanimously. 

Balthazar  waved  his  hat  joyfully  in  the  air.  "  There- 
fore, say  I,  long  live  Gotzkowsky  our  father!  "  cried  he 
with  stentorian  voice.  And  loud  shouts  and  cheers  fol- 
lowed this  appeal.  Men  and  women  surrounded  Gotz- 
kowsky and  offered  him  their  hand,  and  thanked  him 
with  those  simple  and  plain  words  which  never  fail  to 
reach  the  heart,  because  they  come  from  the  heart.  All 
hailed  him  as  friend  and  father,  benefactor  and  master. 
Gotzkowsky  stood  in  their  midst,  proud  and  erect.  A 
deep  emotion  was  evident  in  his  noble  features,  and  h& 
raised  his  beaming,  radiant  face  to  heaven,  thanking. 
God  in  the  humbleness  of  his  heart  for  the  proud  joy 
of  this  hour. 

"  Long  live  Gotzkowsky,  our  father!  "  reiterated  the 
happy  multitude. 

He  lowered  his  eyes,  and  glanced  with  friendly  looks 
at  the  cheerful  assemblage. 

"  Thank  you,  my  children,"  said  he,  "  but  I  beg  you 
not  to  overrate  my  merits.  You  are  of  as  much  service 
to  me  as  I  am  to  you.  He  who  gives  work  is  nothing 
without  the  worker;  the  one  has  need  of  the  other,  to  in- 
crease and  thrive.  Of  what  avail  would  my  looms  and 
my  money  be  if  I  had  not  your  industrious  hands  and 
your  good  will  to  serve  me?  Money  alone  will  not  do  it, 
but  the  good  will  and  love  of  the  workmen  carry  the  day. 
I  thank  you  all  for  your  good  will  and  your  love;  but 
above  all,"  continued  he,  turning  to  Bertram,  "above 
all  things  I  must  thank  you,  my  friend.  You  have 
stood  by  me  and  helped  me  bravely,  and  it  is  full  time 
that  I  should  try  to  reward  you.  Children,  one  more  sur- 
prise have  I  in  reserve  for  you  to-day.  I  appoint  Mr.  Ber- 
tram my  partner  and  sole  director  of  the  silk  factory." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  23 

"  That's  right,  that's  noble!  "  cried  the  workmen. 

Bertram  said  nothing.  He  only  turned  his  eyes, 
clouded  with  tears,  toward  Gotzkowsky,  and  the  latter 
read  in  his  looks  his  deep  emotion  and  affectionate  grati- 
tude. 

"  My  son,"  said  he,  opening  his  arms. 

"  My  father,  oh  my  dear,  noble  father,"  cried  the 
young  man,  throwing  himself,  with  streaming  eyes,  on 
Gotzkowsky's  breast.  The  workmen  stood  round,  deep- 
ly moved,  and  in  silence;  and  in  their  hearts  they  sent 
up  quiet  prayers  to  God  on  high  for  their  employer.  At 
last  Gotzkowsky  raised  himself  from  Bertram's  arms 
and  sought  his  daughter  with  his  eyes.  She  was  still 
sitting,  silent  and  pensive,  at  the  table,  and  did  not  ap- 
pear to  have  observed  what  was  going  on  around  her. 
A  light  cloud  crossed  his  brow  as  he  took  Bertram's  hand 
and  approached  Elise. 

"Well,  Elise,  have  you  no  word  of  congratulation 
for  him?" 

She  shuddered,  as  if  awaking  from  a  dream.  "  Oh," 
said  she,  "my  good  brother  Bertram  knows  that  I  re- 
joice in  his  fortune." 

"Brother!  still  brother?"  murmured  Gotzkowsky 
impatiently. 

"  And  why  should  she  not  give  me  that  sweet 
name?  "  asked  Bertram,  quickly.  "  Have  you  not  often 
called  me  son,  and  allowed  me  to  call  you  father?  " 

"  Oh,  I  would  like  indeed  to  be  your  father,  my  son, 
without  Elise's  having  to  call  you  brother.  But  we  will 
speak  of  this  another  time,"  said  he,  interrupting  him- 
self; and  turning  to  his  workmen,  continued:  "Come, 
let  us  be  merry,  and  of  good  cheer.  Who  knows  how 
long  Heaven  will  grant  us  sunshine?  Come,  you  young 
folks,  I  have  caused  a  target  to  be  set  up  in  the  court. 


24  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

Let  us  go  there.  He  who  makes  the  hest  shot  shall  get 
a  new  coat.  Come,  bride  Greta,  take  my  arm;  I  will  be 
your  groomsman  to-day.  Bertram,  you  and  Elise  follow 
us.  Now,  music,  strike  up  a  song  for  the  bride." 

Gotzkowsky  offered  his  arm  to  the  bride  and  led  her 
out.  Cheerfully  the  motley  crowd  followed  him,  and 
soon  there  was  heard  in  the  distance  their  happy  laugh- 
ter and  the  merry  sound  of  the  music. 


CHAPTEE  III. 

BROTHER   AND    SISTER. 

ELISE  did  not  follow  the  joyous  multitude.  She  still 
sat  musing,  unaware  that  Bertram  was  standing  opposite 
to  her,  considering  her  attentively.  At  last  he  ventured 
to  pronounce  her  name  softly.  She  looked  up  at  him 
with  perfect  composure. 

"  You  do  not  go  with  them,  Elise?  "  asked  he.  "  Do 
you  not  take  any  part  in  the  general  rejoicing?  " 

She  tried  to  smile.  "  Oh  yes,"  said  she,  "  I  am  glad 
to  see  how  much  these  good  people  love  my  father.  And 
he  deserves  it  too.  The  welfare  of  his  workmen  is  his 
only  thought,  and  the  only  fame  for  which  he  strives." 

"  You  are  too  modest  in  your  estimate  of  your  father, 
Elise,"  cried  Bertram.  "  Gotzkowsky's  fame  extends  far 
beyond  the  walls  of  this  town.  All  Germany,  yes,  even 
Holland  and  England,  are  familiar  with  his  name,  and 
the  Prussian  merchant  is  as  much  a  hero  on  '  'Change ' 
as  the  Prussian  king  is  on  the  battle-field." 

"  Only  my  father's  victories  are  less  bloody,"  said 
Elise,  smiling. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  25 

A  pause  ensued.  Both  felt  anxious  and  embarrassed, 
and  neither  dared  to  break  the  silence.  It  was  tlie  first 
time,  since  Bertram's  return  from  his  grand  tour,  that 
she  had  found  herself  in  his  presence  without  witnesses, 
for  she  had  carefully  avoided  being  alone  with  him. 
This  had  not  escaped  Bertram's  notice,  and  he  had  there- 
fore determined  to  take  advantage  of  the  present  oppor- 
tunity to  have  his  fate  decided.  But  yet  he  did  not 
venture  to  speak,  and  the  words  died  away  on  his  lips 
as  he  remarked  her  silent,  indifferent  composure.  As 
he  contemplated  her,  memories  of  former  days  rose  up 
before  him.  He  saw  her  as,  half  child,  half  maiden, 
she  clung  trustingly  and  affectionately  to  his  side,  and 
with  charming  blushes  listened  to  the  teasing  jokes 
of  her  father.  Then  her  whole  soul  lay  open  and  clear 
before  him;  then  she  disclosed  to  him  the  entire  treas- 
ure of  her  pure,  full  heart,  and  all  the  fanciful 
and  dreamy  thoughts  of  her  young  virgin  soul 
were  perceptible;  then  he  had  participated  in  her  joys, 
her  little  sorrows,  every  feeling  which  agitated  her 
breast. 

And  now,  why  was  it  all  so  different? 

A  deep,  painful  melancholy  took  possession  of  him, 
and  made  him  overcome  his  fear  of  her  decision.  He 
sat  down  resolutely  at  her  side,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Elise,"  said  he,  "  do  you  still  remember  what  you 
said  to  me  three  years  ago,  as  I  took  leave  of  you?  " 

She  shook  her  head  and  turned  her  eyes  toward  him. 
These  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  and  her  countenance  was 
agitated  with  painful  emotion. 

Bertram  continued:  "You  then  said  to  me,  Tare- 
well,  and  however  far  you  may  travel  my  heart  goes  with 
you,  and  when  you  return  I  will  "be  to  you  the  same  lov- 
ing, faithful  sister  that  I  now  am/  These  were  your 


26  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

words,  Elise;  you  see  that  I  have  preserved  them  in  my 
memory  more  faithfully  than  you,  my  sister." 

Elise  shuddered  slightly.  Then  she  said,  with  a 
painfully  subdued  voice,  "  You  were  so  long  absent,  Ber- 
tram, and  I  was  only  a  child  when  you  left." 

"  The  young  woman  wishes,  then,  to  recall  the  words 
spoken  by  the  child?  " 

"  No,  Bertram,  I  will  always  love  you  as  a  sister." 

Bertram  sighed.  "  I  understand  you,"  said  he,  sad- 
ly; "  you  wish  to  erect  this  sisterly  love  into  an  impas- 
sable barrier  separating  me  from  you,  and  to  pour  this 
cool  and  unsubstantial  affection  like  a  soothing  balm 
upon  my  sufferings.  How  little  do  you  know  of  love, 
Elise;  of  that  passion  which  desires  every  thing,  which 
is  satisfied  with  nothing  less  than  extreme  happiness, 
or,  failing  that,  extreme  wretchedness,  and  will  accept 
no  pitiful  compromise,  no  miserable  substitute! " 

Elise  looked  at  him  firmly,  with  beaming  eyes.  She 
too  felt  that  the  decisive  hour  had  come,  and  that  she 
owed  the  friend  of  her  youth  an  open  and  unreserved  ex- 
planation. 

"  You  are  mistaken,  Bertram,"  said  she.  "  I  know 
this  love  of  which  you  speak,  and  for  that  very  reason, 
because  I  know  it,  I  tell  you  I  will  always  love  you  as  a 
sister.  As  a  true  sister  I  bid  you  welcome." 

She  offered  him  her  hand;  but  as  she  read  in  his 
pale  face  the  agony  which  tormented  his  soul,  she 
turned  her  eyes  away  and  drew  her  hand  back. 

"You  are  angry  with  me,  Bertram,"  said  she,  sob- 
bing. 

He  pressed  his  hand  convulsively  to  his  heart,  as  if 
he  would  suppress  a  cry  of  agony,  then  held  it  firmly 
to  his  eyes,  which  were  scalded  by  his  hot  tears.  He 
wrestled  with  his  sufferings,  but  he  wrestled  like  a  hero 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  27 

and  a  man  who  would  not  be  subjugated,  but  is  deter- 
mined to  conquer.  As  his  hand  glided  from  his  face 
his  eyes  were  tearless,  and  nothing  was  visible  in  his 
countenance  but  an  expression  of  deep  earnestness. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  recovering  himself,  "  I  accept 
this  sisterly  love  as  a  sick  man  accepts  the  bitter  medi- 
cine which  he  will  not  cast  away  lest  he  commit  suicide. 
I  accept  you  as  my  sister,  but  a  sister  must  at  least  have 
confidence  in  her  brother;  she  must  not  stand  before 
him  like  a  sealed  book  whose  contents  he  is  ignorant  of. 
If  I  am  to  be  your  brother,  I  demand  also  the  rights  of 
a  brother.  I  demand  truth  and  trust." 

"  And  who  says  that  I  will  deny  you  either?  "  asked 
she,  quickly. 

"  You,  yourself,  Elise;  your  whole  conduct,  your 
shyness  and  reserve,  the  manner  in  which  you  avoid  me, 
the  intentional  coldness  with  which  you  meet  me.  Oh! 
even  at  this  moment  you  would  withdraw  from  me,  but 
I  will  not  let  you,  Elise;  I  will  compel  your  heart  to 
reveal  itself  to  me.  I  will  move  you  with  my  devotion, 
my  tender  anxiety,  so  that  the  cruel  crust  will  fall  from 
your  gentle  and  pure  heart,  and  you  will  become  again 
my  candid  and  confiding  sister.  Oh;  Elise,  have  com- 
passion on  me!  tell  me  what  secret,  mysterious  charm 
has  suddenly  seized  you.;  what  wicked,  hurtful  demon 
has  suddenly  converted  this  bright  ingenuous  girl  into  a 
pale,  sad,  serious  woman.  Have  courage  and  trust  me, 
and  let  me  read  as  in  those  happier  days." 

Elise  looked  at  his  noble  countenance  with  a  deep 
and  painful  emotion,  and  met  his  inquiring  look  with 
unabashed  eye. 

"  Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  I  will  trust  you,  Bertram. 
I  will  tell  you  what  I  have  confided  to  no  human  ear. 
Know,  then,  that  my  heart  also  has  felt  the  pains  which 


28  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

affect  yours.  Know  that  an  ardent,  hopeless  love  burns 
my  soul." 

"  A  hopeless  love?  "  asked  Bertram. 

"  Yes,  hopeless,"  said  she,  firmly;  "  for  never  can  I 
hope  for  my  father's  blessing  on  this  love,  and  never, 
without  it,  will  I  leave  my  father's  house  to  follow  the 
man  I  love." 

"  The  man  you  love! "  cried  Bertram,  painfully. 
"  Does  he  also  then  love  you,  and  does  he  know  that  you 
love  him  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "  Can  one 
then  love  without  being  beloved?"  asked  she,  with  the 
unconscious  pride  of  a  young  girl. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Bertram;  "  I  was  a  fool  to 
ask  this  question  of  you.  But  why  do  you  doubt  your 
father's  consent?  Why  do  you  not  go  confidingly  to 
him  and  confess  your  love?  But  how?  Is  this  love 
such  that  it  dare  not  face  the  light,  and  must  conceal 
itself  from  the  eyes  of  your  father?  " 

"  Yes,  Bertram,  it  is  such  a  love;  but  yet  you  must 
not  doubt  me,  you  must  not  think  that  this  love  which 
conceals  itself  from  the  eyes  of  my  father  need  therefore 
fear  the  light  of  the  world.  My  father  would,  perhaps, 
if  he  knew  my  secret,  declare  me  unworthy  of  him;  but 
never,  be  assured,  never  would  I  commit  any  act  un- 
worthy of  myself,  and  for  which  I  would  have  to  blush. 
It  is  possible  that  not  only  my  father  but  the  whole 
world  would  pronounce  me  guilty  if  it  knew  my  love; 
but,  believe  me,  that  in  the  consciousness  of  my  recti- 
tude I  would  have  the  courage  to  brave  the  verdict  of 
the  whole  world,  provided  that  my  own  heart  acquitted 
me,  and  that  I  am  guilty  of  no  other  crime  than  this 
accidental  one,  which  fate,  and  not  my  own  will  and 
trespass,  imposes  on  me.  Love  allows  itself  neither  to 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        29 

be  given  nor  taken,  and  when  it  cannot  command  for- 
tune, it  can  at  least  lighten  misfortune.  More  I  cannot 
tell  you,  my  brother,  and  what  is  the  use  of  words? 
Only  depend  on  what  I  assure  you,  I  will  never  be  faith- 
less to  my  honor  nor  my  love.  You  may  think,"  con- 
tinued she,  proudly  and  passionately,  "  that  my  love  is  a 
crime,  but  never  that  I  could  love  unworthily,  or  that 
I  could  bow  my  head  under  the  disgrace  of  a  dishonor- 
able love." 

She  looked  beautiful  in  her  proud,  flashing  maiden- 
hood; and  Bertram  felt,  as  he  looked  on  her  handsome, 
glowing  countenance,  that  he  had  never  loved  her  so 
sincerely,  and  at  the  same  time  so  painfully,  as  at  this 
moment. 

"  Elise,"  said  he,  grasping  her  hand,  "  will  you  not 
have  entire  confidence  in  your  brother?  Will  you  not 
tell  me  the  name  of  your  lover?  " 

She  shook  her  head  earnestly.  "  Only  God  and  my 
heart  dare  know  it." 

"  Elise,"  continued  he  more  urgently,  "  shall  I  tell 
you  what  has  been  whispered  in  my  ear  as  I  returned 
from  a  long  absence?  Shall  I  tell  you  what  your  ene- 
mies— for  your  youth  and  beauty  and  your  father's 
wealth  have  made  you  enemies — shall  I  tell  you  what 
your  enemies  whisper  to  each  other  with  malicious  joy?  " 

"  No,  no! "  said  she  anxiously,  "  how  would  it  help 
me  to  know  it?  " 

Bertram  continued  inexorably,  "  They  say  that  the 
captive  Eussian,  General  Sievers,  was  welcomed  by  your 
father  into  his  house  as  a  friend,  and  that  he  over- 
whelmed the  noble  prisoner  with  kind  attention." 

Elise  breathed  more  freely.  "  It  was  with  the  con- 
sent and  by  the  wish  of  the  king  that  my  father  was 

kind  to  the  captive  Russian  general." 
3 


30  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  And  was  it  also  by  the  wish  of  the  king  that  Gotz- 
kowsky's  daughter  accepted  the  homage  of  the  Eussian 
general's  adjutant?" 

A  slight  shudder  ran  through  Elise's  whole  frame, 
and  her  cheeks  became  crimson. 

"  Ah/'  cried  Bertram  sadly,  "  I  see  you  understand 
me.  You  will  not  tell  me  the  name  of  your  lover — let 
me  tell  it  to  you.  It  is  Feodor  von  Brenda." 

"  No,  no! "  cried  Elise,  looking  around  in  alarm, 
and  fearful  lest  some  treacherous  ear  had  heard  the  dan- 
gerous secret. 

"  Yes,"  said  Bertram,  "  his  name  is  Feodor  von  Bren- 
da; he  serves  as  a  colonel  in  the  Eussian  army;  he  fights 
against  our  brothers  and  our  king;  he  is  the  enemy  of 
our  country." 

"  You  have  no  pity  on  me,"  cried  Elise,  wringing  her 
hands,  her  eyes  streaming  with  tears.  "  You  wish  to 
kill  me  with  your  cruel  words." 

"  I  wish  to  show  to  the  daughter  of  the  noblest  and 
truest  patriot,  I  wish  to  point  out  to  the  young,  inexperi- 
enced, credulous  maiden,  to  my  sister,  that  she  stands  at 
the  edge  of  an  abyss.  I  wish  to  open  her  eyes  that  she 
may  be  aware  of  the  danger  which  threatens  her.  I 
wish  to  draw  her  back  from  this  abyss  which  threatens 
to  engulf  her." 

"  It  is  too  late,"  said  Elise,  rising  proudly  and  drying 
her  tears.  "  I  know  it  all,  Bertram;  I  stand  at  the  edge 
of  this  abyss  with  open  eyes,  conscious  of  the  danger;  but 
I  will  not,  cannot  draw  back,  for  my  heart  holds  me  fast." 

Elise  took  leave  of  him  with  a  sad  smile,  and  hurried 
rapidly  down  the  dark  walk  which  led  to  the  retired 
and  unfrequented  parts  of  the  garden. 

Bertram  looked  after  her  until  her  pink  dress  disap- 
peared behind  the  dark  foliage  of  the  hedge. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  31 

"  She  loves  him/'  murmured  he,  letting  his  head 
drop  upon  his  breast,  "  it  is  certain  she  loves  him." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

FEODOE   VON   BEENDA. 

ELISE  directed  her  hasty  steps  toward  the  now  re 
tired  parts  of  the  garden.  She  longed  to  he  alone.  Her 
soul,  agitated  by  painful  emotions,  required  silence  and 
solitude,  in  order  to  settle  down  again  gently  to  rest  and 
peace.  Slowly,  and  with  bowed  head,  she  traversed  the, 
dark,  silent  garden-walks.  Her  thoughts  wandered  afar 
off,  and  she  sought  some  little  comfort,  some  relief  from 
the  privations  of  the  present,  in  the  sweet  and  blissful 
recollections  of  bygone  days. 

"What  can  keep  him?"  asked  she  of  herself;  and 
as  she  thought  of  him,  her  countenance  assumed  a  cheer- 
ful, almost  happy  expression.  "  He  swore  to  brave  every 
danger,  every  difficulty,  in  order  to  let  me  hear  from 
him;  and  now,  alas!  ten  weeks  have  passed,  and  no  news, 
no  token,  from  him.  My  God!  is  it  possible  that  in  all 
this  long  time  he  could  have  found  no  opportunity  to 
write  to  me? — or  perhaps  his  love  has  not  survived  the 
test  of  separation  and  silence." 

At  this  thought  she  stopped,  as  if  stunned,  and 
pressed  her  hand  to  her  breast.  A  sharp  pain  shot 
through  her,  and  her  heart  seemed  to  cease  to  pulsate. 
But,  in  a  moment,  her  countenance  brightened  up,  and 
she  murmured,  with  a  gentle  smile,  "  Oh,  to  doubt  his 
love  were  a  greater  treason  than  to  love  my  country's 
enemy.  Oh,  no!  Feodor,  my  heart  does  not  doubt  you; 


32  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  notwithstanding  your  silence,  I  know  that  your 
heart  answers  mine,  and  that  we  are  forever  and  insep- 
arably united." 

With  rapid  step  and  cheerful  mind  she  continued 
her  wandering.  She  had  now  arrived  at  the  darkest 
and  most  secluded  part  of  the  garden.  Nothing  stirred 
around  her,  and  there  was  only  heard  the  rustling  of  the 
dark  fir-tree  moved  by  the  wind,  or  the  melodious  note 
of  some  bird  hidden  in  the  foliage. 

The  garden,  elsewhere  so  carefully  and  artistically 
tended,  stretching  from  the  Leipsic  Street  to  the  Pali- 
sades, which  surrounded  the  town  in  lieu  of  a  wall  at  that 
time,  was  here  overgrown  with  underwood,  protecting 
the  more  beautiful  parts  like  a  quickset  hedge.  But  this 
bush  was,  besides,  surrounded  by  a  high  wall,  running 
immediately  next  to  the  Palisades,  and  bounding  the 
whole  back  part  of  the  garden.  It  was  seldom  that  any 
one  wandered  in  this  neighborhood,,  and  Elise  was  cer- 
tain, therefore,  that  no  inquisitive  eye  could  watch  her, 
no  treacherous  ear  listen  to  her  half-whispered  words. 

She  seated  herself  on  a  bench  under  a  tree,  not  far 
from  the  wall,  and  looked  up  dreamingly  and  thought- 
fully at  the  patches  of  blue  sky  visible  through  the  tree- 
tops.  Her  whole  soul  was  sunk  in  reminiscence.  Ah, 
how  often  had  she  sat  here,  but  not  alone — not  with  this 
painful  longing  in  her  heart,  but  in  the  fullest  content- 
ment of  happiness,  listening  with  delighted  ear  to  words 
spoken  by  him  who  sat  next  to  her,  holding  her  hand  in 
his,  and  gazing  on  her  with  looks  which  made  her  heart 
tremble  with  happiness!  Here,  on  this  spot,  he  had 
taken  leave  of  her,  and  since  then  it  had  become,  as  it 
were,  the  temple  of  her  recollections,  to  which  she  daily 
made  her  pilgrimage  to  offer  up  her  devout,  sincere,  and 
ardent  prayer  of  love. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIX.  33 

She  sat  and  looked  up  to  heaven,  and  her  car,  dwell- 
ing on  words  which  had  died  away  long  ago,  did  not 
hear  sounds  which  were  perceptible  on  the  other  side  of 
the  wall.  It  appeared  as  if  some  one  were  striving  to 
climb  it,  and  indeed  there  could  be  now  seen  a  hand 
feeling  about,  and  then  a  man's  figure  rising  above  the 
wall. 

Cautiously  spying  around,  large  flashing  eyes  looked 
into  the  garden.  One  moment  the  figure  rested  upon 
the  wall,  as  if  exhausted  by  the  exertion,  or  listening 
for  some  sound.  It  was  a  young  man,  in  the  garb  of  a 
peasant,  who  sat  upon  the  wall;  but  the  heavy,  black 
mustache  little  suited  this  peaceful  dress,  and  his  bold 
air,  verging  on  insolence,  seemed  to  challenge  the  dan- 
gers which  surrounded  him. 

He  rested  for  a  moment  on  the  wall,  and  listened 
attentively.  Then  he  drew  a  pistol  from  his  breast,  and 
examined  carefully  its  lock  and  barrel.  He  then  cocked 
it,  and  holding  it  in  one  hand,  began  carefully  and 
noiselessly  to  descend.  With  one  leap  he  sprang  to  the 
ground;  the  leaves  rustled  under  his  feet,  and  again 
he  stood  motionless  in  a  listening  attitude.  His  glance 
was  as  keen  and  bright  as  that  of  an  eagle,  and  it 
seemed  to  penetrate  the  dark  foliage.  Suddenly  a  light 
flashed  across  his  countenance,  and  a  smile  of  delight 
played  about  his  lips,  He  had  seen  the  young  girl,  who 
was  seated  on  the  bench  lost  in  deep  thought,  and  that 
he  had  recognized  her  was  letrayed  by  his  animated  ex- 
pression. Quietly,  carefully,  he  drew  nearer,  ever  and 
again  standing  still  and  listening.  Then  he  stood  close 
behind  her  at  the  tree.  Again  he  listens,  but  every 
thing  is  silent  and  hushed.  Now  he  calls  her  softly  by 
name,  and  whispers  almost  inaudibly,  "  Elise!  " 

She  started  and  looked  up,  but  saw  no  one,  and  as 


34  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

she  recovered  herself,  she  sighed  gently,  and  said:  "I 
was  mistaken,  it  was  only  the  wind." 

But  again  he  whispered:  "  Start  not,  Elise;  do  not 
utter  a  word  or  cry! " 

"  0  God!  "  murmured  she  in  a  low  tone,  trembling 
in  all  her  limbs.  An  ardent  embrace,  a  glowing  kiss 
upon  her  brow,  and  a  well-beloved  voice  whispered  her 
name. 

"Feodor!"  uttered  she  faintly.  Overcome  by  the 
sudden  violence  of  her  feelings,  her  head  dropped  lan- 
guidly on  his  breast.  Then,  drawing  herself  up,  she 
gazed  at  him,  and  her  eager,  loving  look  encountered  his 
flashing  eye.  She  was,  as  it  were,  fascinated — happy  as 
in  a  dream,  and  yet  conscious  of  the  most  delicious 
waking. 

"Do  you  know  me,  Elise?  Do  you  recognize  your 
Feodor  in  spite  of  his  disguise  ?  " 

"  Oh,  speak  again,"  said  she  as  he  ceased.  "  It  is  so 
long  since  I  have  heard  your  voice!  " 

"  Ten  weeks  have  passed,"  said  he,  pressing  her  still 
closer  to  his  heart,  "  without  my  being  able  to  see  you  or 
convey  to  you  any  information.  I  could  endure  it  no 
longer.  I  said  to  myself,  '  God  is  the  friend  of  lovers,' 
and  so  I  disguised  myself  as  you  see  me,  and  ventured 
here." 

Elise  started  up  and  gazed  at  him  anxiously.  Awak- 
ing from  her  ecstasy  of  delight,  she  just  began  to  be  con- 
scious of  the  present. 

"  Good  heavens!  "  she  cried,  "  danger  threatens  you." 

"  Death,  if  I  am  found  here !  "  said  he,  solemnly — 
"  death,  if  it  is  known  in  the  Russian  camp  why  I  came 
here! " 

She  uttered  a  cry,  and  clung  anxiously  to  him. 
"  You  should  not  have  come  here,"  said  she,  trembling. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        35 

"  My  God,  if  my  father  should  find  you  here!  It  was 
cruel  of  you  to  come." 

"  It  would  have  been  more  cruel,"  said  he,  smiling, 
"  if,  being  so  near  you,  I  had  not  come  at  all.  I  have 
watched  and  yearned  so  long  for  this  meeting;  I  have 
longed  so  to  read  in  your  eyes  that  you  have  not  for- 
gotten me!  Why  do  you  cast  them  down,  Elise?" 

"  Because,  Feodor,  you  have  already  read  too  much 
in  them,  more  than  my  father  would  ever  forgive." 

"  Your  father  was  always  kind  and  friendly  toward 
me,  but  at  that  time  I  was  his  prisoner,  now  he  regards 
me  only  as  the  enemy  of  his  country;  and  yet,  Elise,  my 
object  here  is  any  thing  but  that  of  an  enemy.  It  is  not 
only  the  desire  but  also  the  anxiety  of  love  which  brings 
me  here.  Listen  to  me — my  time  is  limited,  and  I  am 
lost  if  I  linger  too  long;  but  I  had  to  see  you  to  warn 
you,  to  avert  the  danger  which  threatens  you,  and  all  of 
you.  Listen,  therefore.  Your  father  is  the  most  power- 
ful and  influential  man  in  Berlin.  His  influence  will  go 
far  with  the  council  and  the  citizens.  Entreat  him, 
Elise,  to  use  all  his  influence  to  avert  a  terrible  bloodshed 
from  this  city." 

Elise  shook  her  head  seriously  and  sadly.  Her  sweet 
dream  was  dissipated;  she  was  now  no  longer  the  dream- 
ing, loving  girl,  but  a  conscious,  reasoning,  collected 
woman. 

"  How  can  my  father  do  that? "  said  she,  doubt- 
ingly. 

"  He  must  persuade  the  citizens  to  yield  without 
fighting." 

"  That  my  father  will  never  do,"  said  she,  warmly. 

"  Yes,  he  will  do  it,"  replied  her  lover,  "  when  he 
learns  that  all  fighting  is  useless.  Let  him  have  com- 
passion on  his  native  town,  on  himself.  You  are  all 


36  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

lost  if  you  fight.  Already  twelve  thousand  of  our  men, 
under  General  Tottleben,  stand  before  the  gates.  At 
this  moment,  while  I  am  speaking,  Tschernitscheff,  with 
twenty  thousand  regulars,  is  approaching  from  the  other 
side.  Count  Lacy,  too,  with  his  Austrians,  is  drawing 
near.  All  this  tell  your  father.  Tell  him,  also,  that 
General  Tottleben  has  promised  our  Empress  Elizabeth 
to  take  Berlin,  if  he  has  to  lay  it  in  ruins  and  ashes. 
Use  all  your  influence,  implore  him  to  do  all  in  his  power 
to  persuade  the  citizens  to  a  peaceful  surrender." 

"  I  have  no  influence  over  my  father,"  said  she,  sadly, 
"  and  if  I  had  I  would  not  abuse  it.  Such  a  surrender, 
without  a  fight,  would  be  cowardice." 

"  But  a  fight,  with  the  assured  certainty  of  defeat, 
would  be  madness.  Your  father  does  not  know  the 
number  of  troops  massed  around  Berlin.  Do  you  tell 
him." 

She  looked  at  him  mournfully.  "  And  shall  I  tell 
him,  too,  from  whom  I  received  this  information  ?  " 

After  a  little  reflection,  he  replied:  "  Yes,  if  it  can- 
not be  otherwise,  tell  him.  Your  father  will  not  betray 
me." 

"  No,  but  he  will  curse  his  daughter,"  cried  Elise, 
painfully — "  curse  her  for  having  had  intercourse  with 
our  country's  enemy,  while  the  Eussian  cannon  threaten 
our  town.  No,  no,  Feodor,  it  were  no  use  to  warn  him. 
My  father  would  not  listen  to  me." 

"  So  Berlin  will  run  toward  its  ruin,  and  I  cannot 
prevent  it,"  said  the  colonel,  sadly.  "  I  have  done  all  in 
my  power.  I  wish  to  requite  your  father  for  all  the 
kindness  he  has  shown  me,  and  for  that  reason  I  risked 
my  life  in  order  to  warn  him." 

"  Believe  me,  Feodor,  I  will  never  forget  you  for  it," 
said  she,  offering  him  both  her  hands.  "  However  angry 


TliE   MJfittCHAKl   UF   UiUiLlN.  :;T 

my  lather  may  be,  my  heart  still  remains  yours.  Love 
does  not  recognize  any  national  hatred.  It  yields  it  sell' 
without  reserve  to  him  who  has  won  it." 

She  leaned  her  head  upon  his  breast,  and  In-  im- 
printed a  kiss  upon  her  forehead. 

"  Thank  you  for  these  words,"  said  he;  "  wherever  I 
go  they  shall  be  my  talisman." 

"  Are  you  going  already?  "  asked  she,  anxiously. 

"  I  must  go,  Elise,"  replied  he. 

"  Oh,  Feodor,  I  dare  not  bid  you  stay.  1  tremble 
at  the  thought  of  my  father  seeing  you,"  sighed  she: 
"  but  when,  my  beloved,  when  shall  we  see  each  other 
again?" 

He  looked  at  her  a  long  time  with  a  steady,  pierc- 
ing glance.  He  then  exclaimed,  almost  rudely:  "  You 
have  sworn  me  love  and  constancy  till  death.  Do  you 
remember  it?" 

"  I  remember  it,  and  never  will  I  be  faithless  to  my 
vow,"  whispered  she,  smiling  through  her  tears. 

"  You  swore  to  me  never  to  belong  to  any  one  but 
me.  Have  you  forgotten  that?  " 

"  No,  I  have  not." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  he,  rising,  "  we  shall  soon  see 
each  other  again." 

"  When,  Feodor,  when?  " 

"When  Berlin  is  in  our  hands,"  said  he,  smiling 
proudly;  "  when  we  enter  your  gates  as  conquerors." 

She  shuddered  painfully.  He  saw  it,  and  a  hateful, 
mocking  expression  passed  across  his  features;  but  this 
lasted  only  a  moment,  and  his  changeable  countenance 
appeared  again  bright  and  loving.  He  took  Elise's  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"  Will  you,  even  at  such  a  time,  allow  me  to  see  you? 
Will  you,  faithful  to  your  vow,  remember  that  my  Elise 


38  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

has  sworn  by  God  and  her  love  never  to  turn  a  deaf  ear 
to  my  call  ?  Will  you  expect  me  ?  "  asked  he,  eoax- 
ingly. 

"  I  will,"  answered  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  I  will  come,"  cried  he,  passionately,  "  if  the 
way  to  you  leads  over  mountains  of  dead  bodies!  " 

She  threw  herself  into  his  open  arms,  and  nestled 
like  a  timid  dove  on  his  breast. 

"  Oh !  "  cried  she,  "  when  danger  threatens  you,  then 
I  think  I  would  like  to  be  a  man  to  share  it  with  you." 

He  covered  her  lips  and  eyes  with  kisses.  "  Fare- 
well, farewell,  Elise;  and  if  it  is  God's  will,  we  will  meet 
again." 

One  last  kiss,  one  last  embrace,  and  he  tore  himself 
from  her  arms  and  hurried  toward  the  wall.  Now  he 
climbs  it,  and  throws  his  last  greetings  to  her,  then  de- 
scends on  the  other  side. 

"  He  is  gone,  he  is  gone!  "  she  shrieked,  and,  falling 
on  her  knees,  raised  her  hands  to  heaven.  "  0  God, 
have  mercy  on  me,  have  pity  on  my  love! " 

It  seemed  as  if  God  did  grant  her  prayer,  for  a  thick 
veil  sank  over  her  eyes,  and  a  swoon  robbed  her  of  con- 
sciousness. 


CHAPTER   V. 

ME.  KRETSCHMER,    OF   THE    VOSSIAN   GAZETTE. 

THE  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  Mr.  Kretschmer, 
sat  at  his  desk,  busily  writing.  That  he  was  a  learned 
man  was  seen  by  his  earnest,  care-worn  forehead,  his 
large,  well-powdered  wig,  and  above  all  by  the  disorder 
and  confusion  which  reigned  in  the  whole  room.  Be- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  39 

sides  which,  Mr.  Kretschmer  wore  a  dressing-gown, 
thickly  sprinkled  with  ink-spots,  the  official  robe  of  his 
literary  dignity.  And  whosoever  beheld  him  in  this 
robe,  his  long  pipe  in  his  mouth,  filling  the  room  with  a 
thick  blue  smoke,  seated  on  his  high  tripod  before  his 
desk,  could  not  but  believe  that  Mr.  Kretschmer  was  a 
learned  man. 

But  more  than  this,  he  was  a  great  politician.  There- 
to testified  the  numerous  journals  which  lay  scattered 
about  on  the  floor,  but  more  especially  the  nineteen 
quarto  volumes,  which  stood  above  on  the  book-shelf, 
lettered  in  gold  on  the  back,  "  VOSSIAN  GAZETTE,"  and 
under  that  the  number  of  the  year,  from  1740  to  1759. 
The  Vossian  Gazette  was  then  a  young,  blooming  rose, 
of  scarcely  nineteen  summers.  It  could  still  pass  for  a 
vigorous,  handsome,  and  perhaps  even  innocent  young 
maiden;  and  Mr.  Kretschmer  was  the  editor  of  the 
Vossian  Gazette.  Had  he  not,  then,  a  right  to  be  re- 
garded as  a  great  politician  ? 

Mr.  Kretschmer  was  at  this  moment  occupied  in 
writing  an  article  for  the  next  morning's  paper,  and  as 
he  had  just'  received  news  "  by  special  courier  "  of  an- 
other battle,  subsequent  to  that  of  Liegnitz,  which  had  re- 
sulted favorably  for  the  Prussians,  he  was  composing, 
with  the  courage  of  a  lion,  an  extra,  which  fairly  glowed 
with  ardent  hatred  against  the  oppressors  and  cannibals, 
namely,  the  Russians  and  the  Austrians;  and  declared 
that  the  salvation  of  all  Germany  depended  on  the  su- 
preme dominion  of  Prussia. 

The  bold  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette  in  this  article 
called  upon  the  people  to  fly  to  arms  against  the  "in- 
cendiary oppressors  of  Freedom  and  the  people's  rights," 
as  he  called  the  Russians;  he  exhorted  even  the  women 
and  girls  to  fight,  and  called  upon  them  to  grasp  the 


J.0  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

sword  in  their  tender  hands  instead  of  the  needle.  Fi- 
nally, he  entreated  all  Berlin,  if  ever  the  incendiary  ene- 
my should  approach  the  gates,  rather  to  let  the  whole  city 
be  destroyed  by  fire,  and  1  ury  themselves  in  the  ruins 
before  they  submitted  to  the  foe. 

Mr.  Kretschmer  then  laid  his  pen  down,  and  revised 
with  a  satisfied  look  what  he  had  written. 

"  That  will  have  an  effect,"  said  he,  rubbing  his 
hands  together,  delighted.  "'  When  his  majesty,  our 
heroic  king,  returns  victorious  to  Berlin,  I  will  send  him 
this  sheet  of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  and  I  know  that  he  will 
be  satisfied  with  my  heroism.'' 

He  looked  again  at  the  paper.  "  Beautiful,  beauti- 
ful! "  exclaimed  he,  with  a  self-satisfied  smile.  "  My 
pen  has  shot  nothing  less  than  bomb-shells  and  grape, 
and  my  ink  has  turned  into  whole  streams  of  the  ene- 
my's blood.  And  why  should  I  not  be  bold,  it  being 
perfectly  safe,  since  the  king  must  certainly  be  victori- 
ous, and  the  enemy  has  no  idea  of  visiting  Berlin? 
Tschernitscheff  and  Tottleben  are  quietly  encamped  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Oder;  Soltikoff  with  his  army  is  near 
Frankfort;  and  Count  Lacy  with  his  Austrians  is  wait- 
ing an  opportunity  to  give  battle  to  our  king.  Thus, 
as  I  said,  I  can  safely  exhort  the  good  citizens  of  Berlin 
to  defend  themselves  heroically  against  the  infamous 
spoiler.  How  beautifully  this  peroration  sounds:  'Peo- 
ple of  Berlin!  rather  let  yourselves  be  buried  under  the 
ruins  of  your  burning  city  than  submit  to  an  incendiary 
enemy! ' — Incendiary"  repeated  he  thoughtfully,  "  that 
is  rather  a  strong  expression,  and  if  the  Eussians  do 
come,  they  will  revenge  themselves  for  it;  but,  pshaw! 
the  Eussians  are  not  coming,  and  I  can  safely  send  this 
article  to  the  press.  And,  furthermore,  did  not  the 
king  himself  stigmatize  the  Eussians  as  such?  Yes,  I 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  41 

remember  last  year,  after  the  unfortunate  invasion  of  thr 
.Russians,  he  looked  down  from  the  steeple  in  Frankfort 
upon  the  devastation  of  the  country,  and  cried  out  with 
angry  indignation,  '  Incendiaries!  incendiaries!  '  The 
expression  is  at  least  official,  and  can  therefore  re- 
main." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  seized  the  bell-rope,  and  began  to 
ring  violently.  Immediately  the  door  opened,  and  a 
small  boy  entered  with  a  portfolio  under  his  arm. 

"  Devil,"  said  Mr.  Kretschmer,  majestically,  "  here  is 
my  article;  run  as  fast  as  you  can  to  the  printing-office 
with  it,  and  impress  upon  the  compositor  the  necessity 
of  haste,  and,  above  all  things,  not  to  make  such  mis- 
takes as  he  did  lately,  when,  in  speaking  of  the  Russians, 
he  put  '  friends '  instead  of  '  fiends/  which  was  an  un- 
pardonable and  most  treasonable  error  of  expression." 

The  little  boy  took  the  paper  and  laid  it  in  his  port- 
folio. 

"  The  printer  told  me  to  ask  you,"  said  he,  "  if  you 
had  written  nothing  yet  for  the  '  Miscellaneous.' 
Spener's  Journal  had  yesterday  such  a  beautiful  '  Mis- 
cellaneous,' and  told  about  a  woman  who  had  four  chil- 
dren at  a  birth,  and  a  stork  which  had  arrived  and  built 
its  nest,  although  it  was  the  month  of  October." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  frowned.  "  Spener's  Journal  al- 
ways has  some  wonderful  news,  and  amuses  the  Berlin 
people  with  all  kinds  of  stupid  gossip,"  grumbled  he. 
"  The  rivalry  of  such  a  paper  is  unbearable." 

"Well,  how  about  the  miscellaneous  intelligence?" 
asked  the  printer's  boy. 

Mr.  Kretschmer  stamped  his  foot  angrily.  "  Go  to 
the  devil!  "  said  he. 

At  this  moment  there  was  heard  a  loud  crying  and 
shouting;  and  while  the  printer's  boy  pitched  out  of  the 


42  THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN. 

door,  Mr.  Kretschmer  hurried  to  the  window  to  find  out 
the  cause  of  the  uproar. 

A  heaving,  noisy  crowd  filled  the  street  below,  and 
had  halted  right  under  the  editor's  window.  In  the 
midst  thereof  was  seen  the  tall,  lank  figure  of  a  man, 
whose  extraordinary  appearance  enchained  the  attention 
of  the  multitude,  and  excited  afresh  their  shouts  and  de- 
risive laughter.  And,  in  fact,  nothing  could  be  more 
striking  or  fantastic  than  this  man.  Notwithstanding 
the  cool  October  weather,  his  gigantic  figure  was  clothed 
from  head  to  foot  in  gray  linen,  harmonizing  strangely 
with  the  gray  color  of  his  skin  and  hair,  which  latter  fell 
in  long  locks  from  his  uncovered  head  down  on  his 
shoulders,  and  gave  to  the  apparition  the  semblance  of  a 
pyramidical  ash-heap,  out  of  which  his  eyes  shone  like 
two  burning  coals.  Around  his  shoulders  hung  a  long 
cloak  of  gray  linen,  which,  in  addressing  the  multitude, 
he  sometimes  threw  around  him  in  picturesque  folds, 
sometimes  spread  out  wide,  enveloping  his  long  arms  in 
it,  so  that  he  looked  like  an  expanded  bat. 

"Ah!  it  is  Pfannenstiel,  our  prophetic  linen- 
weaver,"  said  Mr.  Kretschmer,  smiling,  as  he  opened  his 
window,  and  exchanged  a  look  of  recognition  with  the 
man  who  was  gazing  up  at  him. 

The  linen-weaver  and  prophet  had  rapidly  acquired 
some  renown  in  Berlin  by  his  prophecies  and  predictions. 
The  people  believed  in  his  mystic  words  and  soothsayings 
and  mistaken  fanaticism.  He  related  to  them  his  vi- 
sions and  apparitions;  he  told  about  the  angels  and 
the  Lord  Jesus,  who  often  visited  him;  about  the  Virgin 
Mary,  who  appeared  in  his  room  every  night,  and  in- 
spired him  with  what  he  was  to  say  to  the  people,  and 
gave  him  pictures  whose  mystic  signification  he  was  to 
interpret  to  them.  The  prophet  possessed  more  than  a 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        43 

hundred  of  these  pictures,  given  him  by  celestial  appari- 
tions. He  had  them  carefully  pasted  together,  and 
rolled  up  always  with  him.  These  pictorial  sheets, 
roughly  painted  on  coarse  paper,  served  the  linen-weaver 
in  lieu  of  cards  or  coffee-grounds,  for  the  purpose  of 
prophesying  to  the  people  and  announcing  the  future 
to  them;  and  the  good  folks  of  Berlin  believed  in  these 
prophecies  with  firm  faith,  and  listened  with  devout 
confidence  to  the  words  of  their  prophet. 

Pfannenstiel  was  in  the  act  of  unrolling  his  pictures, 
and  the  multitude,  which,  just  before,  had  been  shouting 
and  screaming,  became  suddenly  silent,  and  gazed  up  at 
the  weaver  with  intense  expectation.  A  breathless  silence 
ensued,  and,  far  down  the  street,  sounded  the  prophet's 
loud  and  sonorous  voice.  He  pointed  to  the  last  of  his 
pictures,  which,  in  coarse,  clumsy  drawing,  represented 
a  town,  from  the  houses  of  which  flames  arose  in  the 
most  variegated  colors.. 

"Behold!  behold!"  cried  the  prophet,  "and  fall  on 
your  knees  and  pray!  Yes,  pray!  for  I  tell  you  the 
Holy  Ghost  appeared  to  me,  His  wings  dripping  with 
blood,  and  in  His  burning  and  flaming  beak  He  held 
this  picture  which  I  now  show  you." 

"  Well,  then,  how  is  it  that  the  picture  is  not  burnt 
too,  if  the  Holy  Ghost  held  it  in  His  burning  beak?  " 
asked  an  impudent  shoemaker's  boy. 

A  low  laugh  ran  through  the  crowd,  but  this  was 
soon  suppressed  by  angry,  threatening  voices,  command- 
ing silence  and  quiet. 

The  prophet  turned  with  an  air  of  majestic  com- 
posure toward  the  questioner:  "Why  was  not  this  pic- 
ture burnt?  Because  God  wished  to  perform  a  miracle, 
to  manifest  Himself  to  me  in  His  glory,  and  to  prove  to 
me  that  this  vision  was  from  Him,  and  not  from  the 


S  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

devil.  Yes,  indeed,  God  gave  me  this  picture  that  we 
might  be  warned — not  to  terrify  us.  Listen,  therefore, 
to  my  voice,  and  learn  what  God  announces  to  you  from 
my  mouth." 

"  I  would  like  indeed  to  hear  what  the  stupid  rascal 
is  going  to  announce  to  these  poor  foolish  devils,"  mut- 
tered Mr.  Kretschmer,  leaning  out  of  the  window  and 
listening  attentively. 

Pfannenstiel  continued:  "Behold  these  columns  of 
fire  rising  from  the  houses  of  this  town.  This  town  is 
Berlin,  and  the  fire  will  burst  out  of  the  roofs  of  your 
houses.  Woe!  woe!  will  sound  in  your  streets,  and  weep- 
ing and  lamentation  will  fill  the  air.  I  say  unto  you, 
watch  and  pray!  Strew  ashes  on  your  heads,  and  fall 
down  on  your  knees  and  pray  to  God  for  mercy,  for  the 
enemy  is  before  your  gates,  and  ere  the  sun  sets  the  Rus- 
sians will  enter  your  town!  I  say  unto  you,  verily  I  say 
unto  you,  God  spoke  to  me  in  a  voice  of  thunder,  and 
said,  '  The  Russians  are  coming! '  Fall  down  and  pray, 
for  the  Russians  are  coming!  " 

"  The  Russians  are  coming!  "  cried  the  terrified  mul- 
titude and  some  among  them  turned  pale.  The  weep- 
ing women  folded  their  hands  in  prayer;  the  men  looked 
around  timidly,  and  the  frightened  children  clung  to 
their  mothers  in  dread  of  the  Russians,  whose  name  was 
synonymous  with  that  of  savages  and  cannibals.  Even 
Kretschmer  could  not  help  feeling  somewhat  terrified. 
He  drew  back  thoughtfully  from  the  window,  mutter- 
ing with  a  shudder,  "  The  Russians  are  coming!  " 

The  people  crowded  around  the  prophet  in  still  nar- 
rower circles,  and  in  more  piercing  tones  wept  and  cried 
out:  "  What  shall  we  do?  What  shall  we  do  to  be  saved? 
Have  mercy,  0  God!  Have  mercy  on  Berlin,  for  the 
Russians  are  coming! " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        45 

"  Yes,  they  are  coming!  "  cried  Pfannenstiel.  "  God 
told  me  so  in  the  roll  of  His  thunder  and  the  lightning 
of  His  eyes;  and  he  said  to  me:  *  Go  and  say  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Berlin,  "  The  Russians  are  coming!  "  and  thou 
shalt  see  in  the  same  hour  how  their  hearts  will  shrink, 
and  how  cast  down  they  will  be;  how  their  eyes  will  run 
tears,  and  their  lips  utter  prayers,  for  the  Eussian  is  Un- 
sworn enemy  of  the  Berlin  people;  and  as  often  as  the 
cry,  "  The  Russians  are  coming,"  sounds  through  the 
streets  of  Berlin,  there  will  be  wailing  and  lamentation 
in  every  house  and  every  heart;  and  they  will  bow  down 
in  timid  contrition  and  abject  obedience.  Speak,  there- 
fore, to  them,  and  say,  "  The  Russians  are  coming!  " 
that  they  may  become  humble  and  quiet;  that  the  proud 
word  may  be  silenced  on  their  lips,  and  that  they  may 
submit  in  peace.' " 

"  What  shall  we  do?  "  asked  the  people.  "  Help  us, 
advise  us,  for  thou  art  our  prophet." 

Pfannenstiel  drew  himself  up  to  his  utmost  height, 
and  an  expression  of  triumphant  cunning  sparkled  in 
his  eyes.  "Do  you  not  understand  the  voice  of  God? 
God  commands  you  to  withdraw  in  silence  and  peace  to 
your  own  dwellings,  to  weep  and  pray.  Go,  then!  Let 
the  word  of  your  mouth  and  the  rebelliousness  of  your 
hearts  be  silent.  Go  home  to  your  huts,  shut  the  doors 
and  windows,  and  do  not  venture  out,  for  without,  death 
and  the  Russians  await  you!  " 

Obedient  to  the  voice  of  their  prophet,  the  crowd 
separated  in  different  directions,  and  dispersed  quietly. 

Pfannenstiel  looked  after  them  with  a  smile  of  scorn : 
then  silently  rolled  up  his  pictures,  threw  his  gray  cloak 
over  his  shoulders,  and,  casting  a  serious  and  significant 
look  up  at  Mr.  Kretschmer's  window,  strode  down  the 
street  slowly  and  with  an  air  of  majestic  dignity. 


46  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTER   VI. 
THE  COWARDS'  RACE. 

THE  warning  sounded  loud  and  threatening  in  Mr. 
Kretschmer's  ears — "  The  Russians  are  coming! "  A 
cold  chill  ran  through  him,  and  he  could  not  prevent  an 
involuntary  shudder.  But  he  tried  to  rouse  himself 
from  this  despondency,  and  laughed  at  himself  for  this 
credulous  fear. 

"  This  Pfannenstiel  is  a  fool,  and  I  would  be  a  great- 
er one  if  I  believed  his  nonsense,"  said  he.  "  No,  no, 
my  information  is  warranted  and  authentic.  The  king 
has  had  a  sharp  skirmish  with  the  Russians  near  Reit- 
wan,  and  driven  them  back,  and  then  proceeded  quietly 
to  Meissen.  Thus  there  is  no  ground  for  anxiety,  and 
I  can  safely  let  off  my  bomb-shells  against  the  Rus- 
sians." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  felt  his  courage  return  and  his  heart 
grow  warm. 

"  Now  I  see  the  whole  game,"  cried  he,  laughing. 
Pfannenstiel  wishes  the  Vossian  Gazette  to  take  notice 
of  him.  He  wants  to  be  talked  about,  and  wishes  the 
newspapers  to  spread  his  reputation.  For  that  reason 
he  stationed  himself  right  under  my  window,  for  that 
reason  he  cast  such  significant  looks  at  me,  for  that 
reason  he  addressed  the  crowd  and  poured  forth  his  non- 
sense right  here.  Yes,  that's  it!  He  wishes  to  prove  to 
me  how  great  his  power  is  over  this  people  which  believes 
in  him,  even  when  he  utters  the  most  incredible  and  un- 
heard-of things.  Well,  we  can  help  the  man,"  con- 
tinued he,  laughing,  as  he  stepped  to  his  desk.  "  The 
desired  article  for  the  '  Miscellaneous '  is  found,  and  I 
think  that  the  prophetic  linen-weaver,  Pfannenstiel,  is 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        47 

well  worth  more  than  the  four  children  at  a  birth  and 
the  miserable  stork's  nest  of  yesterday's  Spener's  Jour- 
nal. Let's  write  it  off  quickly." 

Kretschmer  began  to  write  most  industriously,  when 
he  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  a  violent  knocking  at  the 
door.  It  opened,  and  a  stately  old  gentleman  entered, 
with  well-powdered  wig  and  long  queue. 

"  Mr.  Krause,  my  worthy  colleague! "  exclaimed 
Kretschmer,  jumping  up  and  hastening  toward  the  old 
man.  But  Mr.  Krause  had  no  word  of  greeting.  He 
sank  sighing  into  a  chair. 

"  Do  you  know  the  news?  "  asked  he,  in  a  whining 
tone,  folding  his  trembling  hands,  and  looking  at 
Kretschmer  timidly,  as  he  stood  before  him. 

"Know  what?"  demanded  the  latter  in  reply,  feel- 
ing his  heart  sink. 

"  The  Eussians  are  coming!  "  sighed  Mr.  Krause. 

"  That  is  a  silly  tale,"  cried  Kretschmer  peevishly, 
with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"  Would  to  God  it  were! "  groaned  Krause;  "  but 
the  news  is,  alas,  but  too  true,  and  it  can  no  longer  be 
doubted! " 

"  Man  of  misfortune,"  cried  Mr.  Kretschmer,  "  who 
told  you  so?" 

"  Pfannenstiel." 

"  Pfannenstiel  ? "  repeated  Kretschmer,  laughing 
heartily;  "  oh,  yes!  Pfannenstiel  prophesied  it  just  now 
in  the  streets,  under  my  window.  Now  don't  distress 
yourself,  dearest  friend  and  colleague.  That  was  only  a 
clumsy  trick  of  the  scoundrel  to  get  me  to  write  an  article 
about  him  in  the  Vossian  Gazette.  I  have  already  grati- 
fied his  wish." 

"  You  are  mistaken,"  said  Krause,  mournfully.  "  I 
sent  Pfannenstiel  into  the  streets,  to  quiet  the  people, 


48  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEELIN. 

and  to  admonish  them  to  behave  peaceably  and  soberly, 
even  if  the  Russians  should  come." 

"  Oh!  you  believe  in  all  these  dreams  of  Pfannen- 
stiel?" 

"  I  believe  in  the  truth,  and  in  what  I  know!  "  ex- 
claimed Krause  emphatically.  "  Pfannenstiel  has  for  a 
long  time  been  my  agent,  and  for  a  considerable  stipend, 
paid  every  month,  informs  me  of  all  that  happens,  is 
talked  and  thought  of  in  the  town.  He  is  a  very  useful 
man,  peculiarly  suited  to  this  service." 

"  The  approach  of  the  Russians  is  then  town-talk, 
and  nothing  more?"  asked  Kretschmer,  who  was  still 
anxious  to  throw  doubt  on  the  bad  news. 

"  No,  it  is  a  fact,"  said  Krause  seriously.  "  Pfan- 
nenstiel is,  as  you  know,  not  only  a  prophet,  but  also  a 
quack  doctor,  and  his  herbs  and  decoctions  are  certainly 
often  of  astonishing  efficacy.  He  always  gathers  the 
plants  for  his  mixtures  himself,  and  roams  about  in 
search  of  them  in  the  neighborhood  of  Berlin  for  days 
together.  Last  evening  he  was  outside  the  town,  on  one 
of  these  tramps,  intending  to  pass  the  night  sleeping 
under  a  tree.  He  was  awoke  by  the  sound  of  troops 
marching,  and  as  he  looked  carefully  around,  he  could 
plainly  distinguish  in  the  bright  moonlight  the  uniforms 
of  the  Russian  army.  It  was  a  long  column  of  many 
thousand  men.  They  halted  not  far  from  the  place 
where  Pfannenstiel  lay,  and  he  crept  carefully  nearer. 
He  then  ascertained  from  their  conversation  that  this 
was  only  a  small  division  of  the  army,  which  had  ad- 
vanced by  forced  marches  from  Frankfort,  and  was 
commanded  by  General  Tottleben." 

"By  Tottleben!  "  cried  Kretschmer  in  dismay. 

"Yes,  by  Tottleben,"  whimpered  Krause,  and  they 
both  looked  in  silence  on  the  ground.  "Yes,  his  ven- 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN.  4<< 

geaiice  will  be  terrible,"  said  Krause,  after  a  long  and 
anxious  pause.  "  Have  you  not  heard/'  continued  he  in 
a  whisper — "  have  you  not  heard  the  sad  story  of  what 
occurred  last  year  in  Erlangen?  The  editor  of  tlu- 
Erlangen  Gazette  admitted  into  his  columns  an  article 
abusive  of  our  great  king.  A  Prussian  officer  came  in 
person  to  Erlangen  to  call  the  editor  to  account.  And 
what  do  you  think  he  did?  He  caused  the  unfortunate 
and  pitiable  journalist  to  be  beaten  with  cudgels,  and 
then  gave  him  a  receipt  for  the  bastinado  he  had  gotten." 

"  Horrible! "  cried  Mr.  Kretschmer,  wringing  his 
hands. 

Mr.  Krause  continued:  "  When  a  refined  Prussian 
officer  can  behave  in  this  way,  what  have  we  to  expect 
from  these  rough,  uncivilized  enemies,  the  Russians? 
Oh!  they  will  murder  us,  for  we,  too,  have  ventured  to 
write  boldly  and  energetically  against  them." 

"  Yes,  you  particularly,"  said  Mr.  Kretschmer  quick- 
ly. "  Do  you  recollect  the  famous  article  in  your  paper, 
in  which  you  called  General  Tottleben  a  notorious  adven- 
turer, who  had  deserted  to  the  enemy  after  having  en- 
joyed the  unmerited  favor  of  our  king?  This  was,  cer- 
tainly, rather  strong;  it  might  even  be  called  indiscreet." 

"  Not  as  indiscreet  as  your  *  Earnest  and  Confidential 
Country  Talk,' "  cried  Krause  sharply. 

"  I  never  avowed  myself  the  author  of  that  pam- 
phlet," said  Kretschmer  quickly. 

"  But  every  one  knows  that  you  are,  and  you  never 
denied  it,"  replied  Krause  maliciously.  "  This  (  Coun- 
try Talk '  is  more  than  indiscreet,  it  is  foolhardy.  In 
it  you  nicknamed  Maria  Theresa,  Aunt  Tilla;  the  Elec- 
tor of  Saxony,  Brother  Osten;  the  Empress  of  Russia, 
Cousin  Lizzy;  and  our  king,  Neighbor  Flink.  And 
don't  you  remeinber  what  words  you  put  into  Cousin 


50  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

Lizzie's  mouth,  and  how  you  made  neighbor  Flink  ridi- 
cule her?  Ah,  I  am  afraid  you  will  pay  dearly  for  this 
piece  of  boldness." 

"  It  is  not  quite  so  bad  as  your  calling  Tottleben  a 
notorious  adventurer;  for  the  princes  are  not  here,  but 
Tottleben  is  before  the  gates  of  Berlin,  and  will  revenge 
himself." 

"  I  am  afraid  our  prospects  are  equally  bad,  and  for 
that  reason  I  have  come  to  you,  that  we  might  consult 
together  as  to  what  we  had  best  do,  to  avert  this  threat- 
ening blow  from  our  heads." 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Kretschmer,  drawing  nearer 
to  his  brother  editor.  "  Let  us  consider.  Above  all 
things,  no  exciting  calls,  no  appeals  to  the  people  to  per- 
form deeds  of  heroic  valor.  Berlin  is  too  weak  for  de- 
fence; why,  then,  should  we  irritate  the  enemy  by  use- 
less opposition  ?  " 

"  You,  too,  are  right,"  said  Krause  thoughtfully; 
"  let  us  rather  advise  the  citizens  of  Berlin  to  be  quiet; 
let  us  wheel  boldly  round,  and  speak  in  our  journals  with 
respect  and  deference  of  our  worthy  enemy." 

"  Besides  which,  it  would  be  well  to  consult  with 
some  of  the  principal  men  who  have  an  influence  on  the 
people.  For  example,  let  us  go  to  Gotzkowsky,"  said 
Kretschmer. 

"  Gotzkowsky  gives  a  great  holiday  to  his  workmen 
to-day." 

"  So  much  the  better,  for  then  he  can  immediately 
use  his  influence  on  his  workmen.  Come,  let  us  go  at 
once  to  Gotzkowsky,  this  Crcesus  of  Berlin,  who  bought 
for  our  king  three  hundred  thousand  dollars'  worth  of 
pictures  in  Italy,  without  having  been  paid  for  them  up 
to  this  day,  and  yet  is  able  to  take  a  contract  for  commis- 
sary stores  to  the  amount  of  eight  millions.  Let  us  go 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  51 

to  him;  and,  hark  ye!  it  would  be  as  well  to  take  Pfan- 
nenstiel  with  us  to  back  us." 

"  Yes/'  said  Krause,  raising  himself  quickly  by  the 
arm  of  his  younger  friend,  "  let  us  go  to  Gotzkowsky 
with  Pfannenstiel,  and  preach  mildness  and  submission 
to  him  and  his  workmen." 

They  both  prepared  to  go.  Suddenly  Kretschmer 
stopped  as  if  struck  by  lightning,  and  sank  down  on  a 
chair  stunned.  "  My  article,  my  article!  "  moaned  he. 
"  I  am  a  lost  man!  " 

"  What  article  do  you  mean,  my  dearest  friend  ?  " 

"  The  leading  article  in  to-morrow's  paper,"  whim- 
pered Kretschmer.  "  Oh,  it  was  a  beautiful  article,  full 
of  inspiration,  but  it  is  not  suitable  to  the  times  or  the 
circumstances.  I  wrote  it  under  the  erroneous  impres- 
sion that  our  armies  had  gained  a  victory,  and  in  it  I 
spoke  with  great  contempt  of  the  incendiary  enemy." 

"  My  God,  what  rashness! "  exclaimed  Krause, 
clasping  his  hands  in  despair. 

Kretschmer  flew  from  his  stool,  and  grasped  his  hat. 
"  My  article!  I  must  have  my  article  back.  The  printer 
must  give  it  up  to  me.  Wait  for  me  in  the  street.  I 
come  either  with  my  article  or  not  at  all." 

Bidding  Krause  a  hasty  farewell,  he  hurried  out. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   INTERKUPTED   FESTIVAL. 

GOTZKOWSKY  had  as  yet  received  no  intelligence  of 
the  danger  which  threatened  the  town,  and  was  enjoying 
the  festival  in  his  garden  in  the  midst  of  his  people. 


52  THE  MEKCliANT  OF   IJERL1X. 

They  were-  all  rollocted  on  n  grass-plat  for  target  - 
shooting.  In  the  midst  of  the  plat  rose  a  pole  with  u 
target.  The  women  and  girls  were  standing 'around, 
attentively  and  curiously  watching  the  men,  who,  col- 
lected under  a  tent,  were  shooting  with  crossbows  at  the 
target.  Every  lucky  shot  was  greeted  with  a  cheer, 
every  unlucky  one  with  derisive  laughter;  and  the 
prizes  which  were  assigned  to  the  fortunate  marksmen 
only  served  to  increase  the  joy  and  merriment  of  the 
happy  crowd. 

Suddenly  loud  cries  of  weeping  and  lamentation 
were  heard  from  a  distance.  The  people  looked  at  each 
other  with  anxiety  and  alarm.  The  dismal  noise  came 
nearer  and  still  nearer,  and  then  appeared  at  the  en- 
trance gate  near  by  the  strange  and  wild  figure  of  the 
linen-weaver,  accompanied  by  the  two  editors,  Krause 
and  Kretschiner. 

"  Pfannenstiel!  it  is  Pfannenstiel,  our  prophet! " 
shouted  the  crowd,  while  they  hastened  with  joyous 
laughter  and  words  of  greeting  toward  their  beloved 
seer. 

The  linen-weaver  strode  forward  with  a  serious  and 
majestic  air,  answering  the  greetings  of  the  workmen 
with  patronizing  nods,  and  from  time  to  time  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand  as  if  to  bless  them.  The  multitude 
crowded  around  him,  and  seemed  to  look  upon  the  ad- 
vent of  the  prophet  as  part  of  the  programme  of  the 
entertainment.  But  Gotzkowsky  hastened  toward  the 
two  editors  with  a  cheerful  smile,  bidding  them  a  courte- 
ous welcome.  They  responded  to  his  friendly  greeting 
with  a  solemn  earnestness,  and  requested  a  conference 
with  a  mysterious  and  important  air.  Gotzkowsky 
looked  at  them  with  astonishment;  but  as  he  read  in 
their  countenances  an  expression  of  deep  and  anxious 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  53 

concern,  he  motioned  to  them  and  preceded  them  to  a 
summer-house  on  the  other  side  of  the  la\vn. 

"  Here  we  can  talk  without  being  observed/'  said  he, 
casting  a  look  across  at  his  workmen.  "  You  see  my 
guests  are  still  busy  with  the  scarecrow  which  you 
brought  here;  and  what  business  has  this  man,  indeed, 
among  merry  people?" 

"  He  maintains  that  God  ordered  him  to  come  to  you, 
to  warn  you  in  His  name,  and  call  upon  you  to  protect 
Berlin,"  said  Krause. 

"  Yes,"  continued  Kretschmer,  "  and  he  entreated 
us  to  accompany  him,  trusting  to  our  influence  with  our 
dear  friend." 

Gotzkowsky  looked  at  both  of  the  men  with  aston- 
ishment. "  Tell  me,  my  worthy  friends,  which  of  us 
is  crazy  ?  "  asked  he,  smiling,  partly  in  derision,  partly 
in  pity.  "  I  am  called  on  to  protect  Berlin,  and  from 
what?" 

"  Because  the  Eussians  are  coming,"  said  Mr.  Krause, 
solemnly. 

Gotzkowsky  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  That  is  an 
idle  rumor,"  said  he;  "  two  days  ago  they  were  still  in 
Frankfort.  You  see,  therefore,  that  some  wag  has 
amused  himself  by  teasing  you  and  frightening  you  a 
little  for  the  thunderbolts  which  you  two,  and  particu- 
larly the  Vossian  Gazette,  have  launched  against  the 
Russians." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  shuddered  and  turned  pale.  "  I  beg 
you,"  cried  he,  "do  not  speak  of  it!  Good  Heavens! 
the  Vossian  Gazette  is  the  organ  of  the  popular  mind, 
and  it  is  its  duty  to  take  each  day  the  exact  tone  of 
public  opinion.  I  abused  the  Russians,  therefore,  be- 
cause— ' 

"  Because  they  were  still  a  hundred  miles  from  Ber- 


54:  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

lin.  Oh,  yes!  we  know  you,  gentlemen  of  the  press. 
You  are  full  of  courage  as  long  as  no  enemy  is  in  the 
field,  but  as  soon  as  you  scent  him  and  see  the  points 
of  his  lances,  you  become  quite  humble  and  mild;  and 
when  he  comes  threateningly  down  upon  you,  assure  him 
of  your  respect  and  swear  to  him  that  you  love  him,"  in- 
terrupted Gotzkowsky. 

"  You  are  pleased  to  jest,"  said  Mr.  Krause,  casting  a 
rapid  glance  of  hatred  at  Gotzkowsky;  "  it  is  well,  in- 
deed, that  the  rich  and  powerful  Gotzkowsky  is  so  cheer- 
ful. I  will  notice  it  in  my  journal.  It  is  news  for 
'Change,  and  the  funds  will  rise  when  people  hear  that 
Gotzkowsky  has  laughed." 

Gotzkowsky's  countenance  became  sad  and  serious. 
"  You  may  tell  the  world,"  said  he,  "  that  my  lips 
laugh;  but  how  my  heart  feels,  that  you  gossips  and 
newspapers  know  nothing  about." 

"  God  be  praised,"  said  Kretschmer,  ironically,  "  you 
are  now  talking  earnestly,  and  I  can  request  you  to  listen 
to  our  serious  representations.  It  is  no  idle  rumor  that 
I  have  told  you.  The  Eussians  are  already  at  the  gates 
of  Berlin.  They  have  hurried  thither  by  forced  marches. 
This  news  is  no  longer  a  secret.  All  Berlin  knows  it, 
and  it  is  only  accidentally  that  you  have  not  learned  it 
earlier." 

"  Oh,  Heavens! "  sobbed  Krause,  wringing  his 
hands,  "  what  a  terrible  fate  awaits  our  unfortunate 
town! " 

Gotzkowsky  looked  at  him  with  a  gloomy  frown. 
"  You  are,  it  is  true,  an  old  man,"  said  he,  "  but  even 
old  men  should,  at  such  a  time,  possess  some  manhood. 
But  you,  Mr.  Kretschmer,  are  young  and  hearty;  what 
do  you  say  to  this  approach  of  the  Eussians?  " 

"  I  say,"  replied  Kretschmer,  sharply,  "  I  say  that  it 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  55 

would  be  madness  to  excite  the  wrath  of  the  enemy  by 
resistance.  I  say,  that  those  citizens  who  call  on  the 
people  to  fight  are  rash  fools." 

"  Oh!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  joyfully,  "  if  there  be  any 
such  rash  fools,  then  all  is  not  lost! " 

"  Can  you  comprehend  such  madness  ?  "  whispered 
Krause,  "  to  wish  to  oppose  an  overwhelming  force  while 
all  our  capable  men  and  youths  are  with  the  army  in 
Silesia,  and  we  have  no  troops  but  the  sick  and  maimed; 
no  artillery  save  two  old  rusty  cannon  ?  " 

"  A  people  willing  to  fight  for  liberty,"  cried  Gotz- 
kowsky, "  such  a  people  have  the  strength  of  a  giant 
even  without  cannon  and  bayonets.  God  has  given 
them  hands  and  paving-stones.  If  we  cannot  shoot 
down  the  enemy  who  threatens  our  liberty,  we  can  beat 
him  down." 

"  What  do  you  say? "  stammered  Krause,  looking 
with  amazement  at  Gotzkowsky's  glowing  countenance. 

"  I  say,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  "  that  you  have  mistaken 
your  man.  I  will  not  advise  the  brave  Berlin  people  to 
yield  without  having  at  least  fought  for  their  freedom." 

"  But  only  reflect! "  exclaimed  Kretschmer,  while 
Krause  paced  up  and  down,  wringing  his  hands  and 
moaning  in  a  low  tone;  "have  you  forgotten  that  the 
Kussian  generals  have  proclaimed  that  the  empress  has 
commanded  them  to  leave  nothing  but  air  and  earth  to 
the  inhabitants  of  every  conquered  town  and  province 
of  Prussia?  " 

"Oh,  pshaw!"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  laughing,  "they 
will  have  to  conclude  to  leave  us  something  more." 

"  And  did  you  hear  London's  terrible  threat  ?  He 
has  said  his  soldiers  should  massacre  every  one,  and  not 
spare  even  the  child  in  its  mother's  womb." 

"  And  did  you  not  hear  the  brave  Schwerin's  answer 


56  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

to  tliis  Austrian  bravado?"  asked  Gotzkowsky.  "He 
said,  '  My  soldiers  are  not  with  child.,  neither  am.  I.* 
Well,  our  men  of  Berlin  are  not  with  child,  and  there- 
fore they  need  not  be  afraid." 

"  But  you  must  be  afraid!  "  whined  Krause.  "  It  is 
disgraceful  madness  not  to  be  afraid.  How!  You  can 
be  so  unreasonable  as  to  advise  war?  But  war  is  the 
most  bitter  enemy  of  prosperity,  and  threatens  property 
above  all  things." 

"  Then  shame  on  the  proprietors,"  cried  Gotzkowsky, 
"  if  their  property  is  to  make  cowardly  poltroons  of 
them!  Liberty  is  our  greatest  possession,  and  all  else 
must  yield  to  it." 

At  this  moment  loud  cries  and  sounds  of  wailing 
were  heard  in  the  garden  from  the  collected  workmen, 
who  surrounded  the  prophet  in  a  dense  group,  and  lis- 
tened to  his  prophecies  with  anxious  wonder  as  he  ut- 
tered them  from  a  high  bench. 

Gotzkowsky  frowned.  "  Ah,  I  understand!  "  said 
he,  "this  good  linen-weaver  is  your  accomplice,  my 
brave  gentlemen,  and  as  you  wish  to  convert  me,  so  does 
he  wish  to  convert  my  honest  workmen  into  old  women. 
Let  us  see  first  in  what  sort  of  gibberish  he  preaches  his 
wisdom  to  these  good  people." 

Without  taking  any  further  notice  of  the  two  editors, 
Gotzkowsky  left  the  summer-house  rapidly  and  ap- 
proached the  listening  multitude. 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN.  07 

CHAPTEK   VIII. 

THE  iEADER   OF    THE    PEOPLE. 

THE  inspired  prophet  stood  on  a  bench,  and,  as  lie 
unrolled  his  pictures,  he  endeavored  to  explain  these 
mystical  paintings  to  his  devout  gazers  and  listeners 
in  equally  mystical  language.  Gotzkowsky  hastened  to- 
ward this  group,  and  pressed  in  silent  observation  close 
up  to  Pfannenstiel's  side. 

The  linen-weaver,  wholly  possessed  by  his  prophetic 
god,  1'ad  in  the  mean  while  unrolled  another  picture, 
and  holding  it  up  high  with  solemn  countenance,  ex- 
claimed with  a  screaming  voice:  "  The  day  of  judgment 
is  at  hand,  and  destiny  is  at  your  door!  In  my  dream 
I  saw  a  face  like  unto  no  other  face,  and  I  heard  a  voice, 
and  the  voice  was  like  unto  no  other  voice! " 

"  And  yet  you  heard  it!  What  ears  you  must 
have! "  said  Gotzkowsky,  laughing. 

The  prophet  answered  calmly,  "  Yes!  for  then  were 
seen  invisible  things,  and  then  were  heard  inaudible 
sounds! "  And  showing  a  fresh  picture  to  the  crowd, 
he  continued:  "  Look  at  this  picture,  which  I  found 
this  morning  on  my  sheet.  It  contains  the  history  of 
your  future,  and  God  announced  it  to  me  as  I  sat  at  my 
loom  weaving.  I  heard  a  voice  crying,  *  Pfannenstiel, 
my  beloved  son,  dost  thou  hear  me? '  And  I  fell  on  my 
knees  and  answered,  '  Yes,  I  hear.'  '  Dost  thou  know 
what  thou  art  weaving? '  asked  the  voice.  '  Yes,'  said 
I,  '  it  is  linen  shirting  for  the  almshouse.'  '  No/  said 
the  voice,  '  it  is  a  cloth  of  weeping  for  the  town  of  Ber- 
lin, for  the  daughters  of  your  fathers  will  shed  tears, 
and  there  will  be  moaning  and  weeping.' " 


58  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

These  last  words  he  accompanied  with  a  sobbing  and 
plaintive  howl,  in  which  his  trembling  hearers  joined. 
They  assured  each  other  in  uncomfortable  whispers  that 
Pfannenstiel's  prophecies  usually  came  true,  and  that, 
even  before  the  war,  he  had  predicted  the  coming  of  this 
day  of  terror. 

But  soon  Pfannenstiel  raised  his  voice,  and  its  hoarse 
croaking  sounded  above  the  loud  conversation  and  anx- 
ious cries  of  the  multitude.  "  Woe  unto  Berlin!  "  cried 
he,  with  shrieking  pathos.  "  Blood  will  flow  within  her 
walls!  The  voice  said  unto  me,  '  I  will  look  upon  red, 
but  it  will  not  be  a  scarlet  cloak,  and  when  the  red  ban- 
ner waves  thrones  will  tremble,  and  there  will  be  no  end 
to  the  lamentation.  And  the  cock  will  crow,  and  the 
heavens  will  shine  blood-red,  and  everywhere  and  in  all 
places  men  will  cry,  "  Blood!  blood  is  the  drink  of  new 
life;  blood  makes  young  what  is  old;  blood  wipes  out 
sworn  debts;  blood  makes  the  proud  humble.  Let  us 
drink  blood!"'" 

Here  the  prophet  was  interrupted  by  the  loud  cries 
and  wailing  of  the  multitude.  The  women  broke  out  in 
tears,  sank  on  their  knees  and  prayed,  or  clung  trem- 
bling and  weeping  to  their  moody-looking  husbands. 

Pfannenstiel  looked  with  an  air  of  proud  triumph  on 
this  evident  effect  of  his  speech,  and  then  continued  in 
a  more  subdued  tone:  "  But  the  voice  said  to  me, '  Hope, 
and  every  thing  will  turn  out  well,  and  the  blood  which 
flows  will  transform  itself  into  a  purple  robe,  and  men 
will  call  it  freedom.  Out  of  death  will  arise  life/ 
Therefore  fall  down  on  your  knees,  for  the  hour  of  judg- 
ment has  come,  and  prayer  alone,  but  not  the  sword,  can 
save  you." 

The  multitude,  carried  away  by  the  deception,  were 
in  the  act  of  obeying  this  order,  when  Gotzkowsky,  who 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        59 

could  no  longer  restrain  himself,  stepped  rapidly  for- 
ward, his  countenance  radiant,  and  his  eyes  sparkling 
with  anger. 

"  Listen  not  to  this  hypocritical  set,  this  lying 
prophet,  my  people!  "  cried  he,  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 
"  He  will  make  cowards  of  you  all,  cowards  who  will  sub- 
mit to  the  yoke,  howling  and  whining.  You  would  not 
have  this  ignominy  put  upon  you.  You  will  be  men, 
who  will  defend  their  liberty  with  noble  courage  to  the 
last  drop  of  their  blood,  against  the  invading  hordes  of 
barbarians.  For  the  barbarians  are  coming,  and  their 
fierce  wrath  threatens  your  wives  and  children.  Will 
you  submit  to  the  Russians  with  a  humble  whine?  " 

"  No,  no! "  cried  the  men,  and  many  a  clinched  fist 
was  raised,  and  many  a  wild  but  muttered  oath  was  heard. 

At  this  moment  there  arose  in  the  street  a  confused 
sound  of  screams  and  yells,  then  the  hollow  roll  of  the 
drum,  and  the  deep  clang  of  the  alarm-bell,  which  sum- 
moned the  citizens  to  the  town-hall. 

The  garden  gates  were  now  violently  thrown  open, 
and  a  band  of  stout  workmen  was  seen  hastening  in  wild 
disorder  toward  Gotzkowsky. 

These  were  the  workmen  from  Gotzkowsky's  facto- 
ries, industrious  men,  who  had  preferred  working  in  the 
factory,  and  not  losing  their  time,  to  the  enjoyment  of 
the  day's  festival,  and  to  whom  Gotzkowsky  had  ordered 
double  wages  to  be  paid,  that  they  might  not  lose  their 
share  in  the  celebration  of  his  daughter's  birthday. 

"  The  Eussians  are  at  the  gates!  "  cried  they.  "  All 
the  citizens  are  arming  themselves.  We  have  no  arms. 
Give  us  arms,  master!  " 

The  cry  was  taken  up  by  those  who  had  just  been 
listening  to  Pfannenstiel's  words.  "  Yes,  give  us  arms, 
give  us  arms.  We  are  no  cowards,  we  will  fight!  " 


60        THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Gotzkowsky's  flashing  eye  flew  across  the  multitude, 
and  he  saw  in  the  earnest  countenances  of  the  men  that 
they  were  serious  in  their  demand,  and  in  their  desire 
to  fight.  "  Well,  then,  if  you  will  fight,  you  shall  not 
want  for  weapons,"  cried  he,  joyfully.  "  I  have,  as  you 
know,  in  my  house,  a  collection  of  costly  arms.  Follow 
me,  my  children;  we  will  go  to  the  armory,  and  each 
one  shall  take  what  he  likes  best.  On  such  a  day  as  this, 
arms  do  not  belong  to  any  one  in  particular,  but  are  the 
property  of  him  who  can  find  and  make  use  of  them. 
That  is  the  sacred  right  of  manhood.  The  country  is  in 
danger!  Come  to  my  armory  and  arm  yourselves! " 

The  men  shouted  for  joy  at  Gotzkowsky's  words, 
and  pushed  after  him  with  wild  impetuosity  into  the 
house,  and  the  large  hall,  in  which  the  costly  weapons 
were  tastefully  grouped  and  ornamentally  arranged 
against  the  walls.  With  eager  haste  the  men  possessed 
themselves  of  these  arms,  and  Gotzkowsky  saw  with  glad 
pride  his  rare  Damascus  blades,  his  delicately  carved 
silver-mounted  pistols,  his  daggers  inlaid  with  gold,  his 
costly  ornamented  sabres  and  guns  in  the  hands  of  his 
warlike  workmen.  He  then  armed  himself,  and  his 
men,  always  accustomed  to  look  upon  him  cheerfully 
and  willingly  as  their  leader,  fell  into  line  behind  him  in 
a  long  military  procession. 

"Now,  then,  my  children,"  cried  he,  "let  us  go  to 
the  town-hall  and  offer  our  services  to  the  magistrates." 

And  at  the  head  of  his  workmen  he  left  the  house. 
Soon  deep  silence  reigned  in  these  rooms,  so  lately  filled 
with  noise  and  tumult.  The  garden,  too,  had  become 
deserted  and  empty.  Pfannenstiel  alone  remained  in 
his  elevated  position,  gazing  pensively,  as  in  a  dream, 
on  his  collection  of  pictures. 

After  this  silence  had  lasted  some  time,  Krause  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        $1 

Kretschmer  crept,  cautiously  looking  around  them,  out 
of  the  summer-house  in  which  they  had  secreted  them- 
selves up  to  this  moment.  Their  countenances  were 
pale  and  angry. 

"  Gotzkowsky  is  a  puffed-up  fool,"  exclaimed  Krause, 
with  a  dark  frown.  "  With  his  swaggering  phrases  he 
has  seduced  these  workmen  away  from  us,  to  rush  into 
the  fight  like  wounded  wild  boars,  and  to  bring  the  Kus- 
sians  down  upon  us." 

"  We  must  not  give  up  all  hope,"  said  Kretschmer; 
"  the  people  are  timid  and  fickle,  and  whoever  will  give 
them  the  sweetest  words  wins  them  over  to  his  side. 
Come,  let  us  try  our  luck  elsewhere.  Every  thing  de- 
pends upon  our  being  beforehand  with  this  braggart 
Gotzkowsky,  and  getting  first  the  ear  of  the  people. 
You,  Pfannenstiel,  come  with  us,  and  get  up  your  words 
strong  and  spirited,  so  that  the  stupid  people  may  be- 
lieve you." 

Pfannenstiel  clapped  up  his  picture-book,  and  threw 
his  cloak  with  majestic  dignity  over  his  lean  shoulders. 
"  The  people  are  like  a  flock  of  sheep,"  said  he;  "  they 
want  a  leader,  never  mind  who.  Only  the  leader  must 
be  there  at  the  right  hour;  and  if  God  has  bestowed 
upon  him  the  gift  of  eloquence,  he  can  lead  them  either 
into  the  church  to  contrite  prayer,  or  to  the  slaughter- 
field  to  bloody  combat.  The  people  are  a  flock  of  sheep, 
nothing  more! " 

"Come,  then,"  cried  Kretschmer  pathetically; 
"  come  and  be  their  bellwether,  and  lead  the  people  into 
the  church." 


62  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTEE    IX. 

THE    RUSSIAN   IS   AT   THE    GATES. 

IN  a  few  minutes  quiet,  peaceful,  industrious  Berlin 
was  transformed  into  an  open  encampment.  From  all 
the  streets  there  poured  throngs  of  armed  men  toward 
the  town-hall,  where  the  wise  magistrates  were  consult- 
ing on  the  possibility  of  resistance,  or  toward  the  com- 
mander of  Berlin,  General  Rochow,  who  had  the  streets 
patrolled,  and  called  upon  the  citizens,  by  beat  of  drum, 
to  assemble  with  arms,  and  assist  in  the  defence  of  the 
town. 

"  The  Russian  is  at  the  gates!  "  This  cry  of  terror 
seemed  to  cure  the  sick  and  feeble,  and  give  courage 
and  strength  to  the  wavering.  The  old  national  hatred 
of  the  German  toward  the  Russian  broke  out  in  its  entire 
vigor;  and  vehemence  made  even  the  faint-hearted  fly 
to  arms,  and  caused  words  of  imprecation  to  rise  to  the 
lips  of  those  who  were  in  the  habit  of  uttering  prayers 
and  timid  complaints. 

The  council  of  war  was  assembled  at  the  com- 
mander's office,  and,  strange  to  say,  it  consisted  of  only 
old  men  and  invalids.  There  were  present  the  infirm 
veteran  general  and  commander,  Rochow,  and  the 
eighty-year-old  Field-Marshal  Lehwald,  the  severely- 
wounded  General  Seidlitz,  and  General  Knoblauch,  also 
wounded.  These  four  composed  the  whole  council,  and 
fully  aware  of  the  danger  and  of  the  smallness  of  their 
forces,  were  debating  whether  they  should  yield  to  the 
demand  of  the  Russian  troops,  and  give  up  the  town 
without  any  defence,  or,  with  twelve  hundred  garrison 
troops,  two  rusty  cannon,  a  few  thousand  wounded 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        63 

soldiers,  and  an  inefficient  body  of  citizens,  give  bat- 
tle to  the  twelve  thousand  irregular  troops  of  General 
Tottleben,  who  would  soon  be  reenf orced  by  the  army  of 
General  Tschernitscheff,  twenty  thousand  strong,  and 
fourteen  thousand  Austrians  under  Count  Lacy,  who, 
as  they  well  knew,  were  coming  on  by  forced  marches. 
But  so  great  was  the  heroic  exasperation  and  eagerness 
for  the  fight  of  these  noble  and  war-worn  veterans,  that 
not  one  of  them  advised  submission;  but,  on  the  con- 
trary, they  unanimously  determined  to  defend  Berlin 
as  long  as  a  drop  of  blood  flowed  in  their  veins. 
As  these  brave  generals  had  no  army  to  lead  into 
the  fight,  they  would  defend  the  town,  not  as  com- 
manders of  high  rank,  but  as  fighting  soldiers,  and 
waiving  their  military  rank  and  dignity  to  their  noble 
love  of  country,  like  other  soldiers,  they  would  each  one 
defend  his  intrenchment  or  redoubt. 

But  while  the  military  commanders  were  adopting 
these  heroic  resolutions,  the  Town  Council  was  engaged 
in  secret  session  at  the  town-hall.  The  wise  fathers 
were  staring  at  each  other  with  terror  in  their  counte- 
nances, and  considering,  in  pusillanimous  faint-hearted- 
ness,  whether  they  would  really  assume  the  heavy  re- 
sponsibility of  engaging  the  peaceful  citizens  in  a  fight, 
which,  after  all,  would  be,  in  all  probability,  useless  and 
without  result. 

"I  vote  for  submission,"  stammered  out  the  chief 
burgomaster,  Herr  von  Kircheisen,  with  heavy  tongue, 
as  he  wiped  off  the  big  drops  of  sweat  which  stood  upon 
his  brow  with  his  silk  handkerchief.  "  I  vote  for  sub- 
mission. The  honorable  citizens  of  this  town  are  not 
called  on  to  spill  their  blood  in  useless  fighting,  nor  to 
irritate  the  wrath  of  the  enemy  by  resistance.  And  be- 
sides, the  enemy  will  doubtless  lay  a  war  tax  on  us,  and 


64  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

this  will  certainly  be  lighter  if  we  submit  at  once  than 
if  we  resist.  Further,  it  is  the  sacred  duty  of  a  prudent 
magistrate  to  protect  and  preserve,  to  the  best  of  his 
ability,  the  property  of  the  citizens.  It  is  therefore  my 
opinion  that,  in  order  to  save  the  hard-earned  possessions 
of  the  poor  citizens  of  Berlin,  already  sufficiently  op- 
pressed, we  submit  at  once  to  an  overwhelming  force." 

By  the  brightening  countenances  of  the  worthy 
councilmen  it  could  be  plainly  perceived  that  the  elo- 
quence of  the  chief  burgomaster  had  told  powerfully 
upon  them,  and  that  the  question  of  money  which  he 
had  raised  would  prove  a  powerful  and  decisive  argu- 
ment in  favor  of  submission  at  this  momentous  period. 

The  assistant  burgomaster  had  already  expressed  his 
entire  concurrence  in  the  views  of  Herr  von  Kircheisen, 
and  the  first  alderman  was  in  the  act  of  opening  his 
mouth  to  do  the  same,  when  the  patriotic  deliberations 
of  the  worthy  gentlemen  were  interrupted  by  shouts 
and  cries  from  the  street  below,  which  drove  them  in  ter- 
ror from  their  seats.  They  hastened  to  the  windows, 
and,  carefully  concealed  behind  the  curtains,  ventured 
to  peep  down  into  the  street. 

Down  there  they  beheld  a  much  more  lively  sight — 
men  and  youths,  old  men  and  boys  streamed  toward  the 
town-hall,  and,  raising  their  eyes  and  arms  to  the  win- 
dows, demanded  from  the  city  fathers,  with  genuine 
enthusiasm,  weapons  and  ammunition.  Perhaps,  in- 
deed, it  was  only  fear  which  had  suddenly  made  these 
peaceful  citizens  of  Berlin  so  bold  and  lion-hearted: 
one  thing  is  certain,  that  is,  that  at  this  moment  they 
were  all  animated  by  one  sentiment,  one  impulse,  and 
that  their  deadly  hatred  against  Eussian  and  Austrian 
rendered  peaceable  submission  impossible.  The  tailor 
threw  away  his  needle  and  grasped  the  sword,  the  shoe- 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  65 

maker  exchanged  his  awl  for  a  dagger,  and  all  these 
quiet,  humble  citizens  had  been  transformed  by  hatred 
and  fear,  anger  and  terror,  into  most  belligerent  heroes. 

"  Give  us  arms!  "  was  the  reiterated  cry. 

An  heroic  tailor  climbed  up  on  the  shoulders  of  a 
hunchback  shoemaker,  and  sawing  the  air  violently  with 
his  arms,  cried  out:  "  The  people  of  Berlin  demand  their 
rights;  they  will  fight  for  their  liberty.  Give  the  people 
of  Berlin  their  due.  Give  them  arms — arms! " 

"  Arms!  "  roared  the  crowd.    "  We  will  have  arms!  " 

"  And  what  do  you  want  with  arms?  "  cried  sudden- 
ly a  shrill,  piercing  voice.  All  eyes  were  turned  toward 
the  spot  whence  the  voice  proceeded,  and  there  was  seen 
the  meagre  figure  of  the  linen-weaver,  who  had  leaped 
upon  a  bench,  and  from  his  elevated  position  was  look- 
ing down  upon  the  people  with  the  confident  air  of  a 
conqueror.  But  Pfannenstiel  observed,  to  his  dismay, 
that  this  time  his  appearance  did  not  produce  the  de- 
sired effect;  on  the  contrary,  angry  looks  were  cast  upon 
him,  and  occasionally  a  threatening  fist  was  raised 
against  the  divinely-inspired  prophet. 

"What  do  you  want  with  arms?"  cried  he  once 
more.  "  Prayer  is  the  only  weapon  becoming  peaceful 
citizens." 

A  burst  of  scornful  laughter  was  the  answer.  "  Down 
with  the  linen -weaver!  Tear  him  to  pieces! "  roared 
the  crowd,  becoming  infuriated. 

"  We  mean  to  fight,  and  not  to  pray/'  cried  the  valor- 
ous tailor. 

"  We  want  none  of  your  poltroonery,  you  blackguard 
of  a  linen -weaver!  " 

"The  tailor  is  right!  Pfannenstiel  is  a  false 
prophet!  "  cried  another  voice. 

"  Hang  him! " 


66  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  He  wants  to  make  cowards  of  us!  " 

The  crowd  raged  still  more  furiously,  and  pressed 
toward  the  spot  where  Pfannenstiel  stood.  Threatening 
hands  were  raised  against  him,  and  the  situation  of  the 
prophet  of  peace  began  to  be  uncomfortable  enough, 
when  suddenly  two  new  figures  rose  near  him,  and,  by 
their  unexpected  appearance,  restrained  for  a  moment 
the  wrath  of  the  people. 


CHAPTER   X. 

BE    PEUDENT. 

THESE  two  men,  who  so  unexpectedly  appeared  at 
the  side  of  the  prophetic  weaver,  were  none  else  than  the 
two  editors,  Kretschmer  and  Krause,  who  came  to  sup- 
port him  in  his  exhortations  in  favor  of  peace,  and  to 
use  their  eloquence  on  the  multitude  assembled  in  front 
of  the  town-hall. 

Mr.  Krause  opened:  "  Listen  to  me,  good  citizens  of 
Berlin;  look  at  my  gray  hairs.  Age  has  the  advantage, 
if  not  of  wisdom,  at  least  of  experience.  Listen  to  my 
advice.  You  who  wish  to  fight  for  liberty,  be  at  least 
prudent  and  moderate." 

"None  of  your  moderation!"  cried  the  tailor. 
"We  won't  be  moderate!  " 

"  But  you  will  be  reasonable  and  prudent,  won't 
you?"  cried  Mr.  Kretschmer,  with  his  clear,  penetrat- 
ing voice,  raising  himself  on  tiptoe,  and  casting  his  large, 
light-blue  eyes  over  the  crowd.  "  You  will  be  reason- 
able, certainly,  and  in  reason  you  can  tell  me  what  you 
wish,  and  we  can  deliberate,  and  decide  whether  that 
which  you  wish  is  reasonable." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  *# 

"  We  want  arms." 

"  But  why  do  you  want  arms?  " 

"  To  fight  the  enemy,"  cried  the  shoemaker,  whom 
the  crowd  seemed  tacitly  to  recognize  as  their  mouth- 
piece. 

"  You  really  wish,  then,  to  fight  ? "  asked  Mr. 
Kretschmer.  "  You  wish  to  precipitate  yourselves  into 
a  fight,  with  the  certainty  of  being  defeated.  You  wish 
to  put  yourselves  in  opposition  to  an  enemy  who  out- 
numbers you  ten  times;  who,  with  sneering  pride,  will 
drive  your  little  band  of  warriors,  with  his  cannon,  to 
destruction!  Consider  what  you  are  about  to  do! 
Twelve  thousand  Russians  are  now  before  your  gates; 
their  cannon  pointed  against  your  walls,  your  houses, 
your  churches,  and  they  are  awaiting  only  an  opportu- 
nity of  springing  upon  you  like  a  tiger  on  his  prey.  And 
what  have  we  to  oppose  them?  Our  little  garrison  con- 
sists of  invalids  and  wounded  men;  for  our  young  men, 
able  to  fight,  are  all  with  the  king  on  the  bloody  fields 
of  Silesia,  and  only  a  small  band  of  worthy  citizens  re- 
mains here.  Can  they  fight  against  an  overwhelming 
enemy,  ten  times  their  number?  Can  they  wish  to  do 
it?" 

No  one  answered  this  question.  The  countenances 
became  thoughtful,  and  the  redness  of  anger  grew  paler 
on  their  cheeks. 

"  Yes,"  cried  one  of  the  people,  "  we  are  very  weak." 

"  We  cannot  think  of  gaining  a  victory,"  grumbled 
out  another. 

Mr.  Kretschmer  perceived,  by  the  darkening  faces 
and  downcast  look  of  his  audience,  that  the  prudence 
he  was  preaching  had  already  commenced  to  press  the 
courage  of  the  poor  people  into  the  background,  and 
raising  his  voice  still  higher  he  continued: 


58  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  Your  fighting  will  be  a  species  of  suicide.  Your 
wives  and  children  will  curse  you  for  having  killed 
their  husbands  and  fathers.  Worthy  citizens!  be  pru- 
dent, and  remember  that  work  and  not  war  is  your 
calling.  Go  home,  then,  and  mind  your  business; 
take  care  of  your  wives  and  children,  and  bow  your 
heads  in  humbleness,  for  necessity  will  teach  you  pru- 
dence." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  stopped,  and  the  silent  assembly 
seemed  to  be  considering  whether  they  should  listen  to 
his  prudent  advice.  Even  the  heroic  tailor  had  climbed 
down  from  the  hump  of  the  shoemaker,  and  remained 
thoughtful  and  silent. 

"  The  man  is  right,"  cried  the  shoemaker,  in  his 
grumbling,  bass  voice. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  said  his  gossip,  the  glover;  "  why 
should  we  sacrifice  our  legs  and  arms?  We  can't  beat 
them  anyhow." 

"Now,  my  friends,"  whispered  Kretschmer  to  his 
associates,  "  now  is  your  turn  to  speak.  My  breath  is 
exhausted.  You  speak  now  and  finish  the  good  work  I 
commenced.  Admonish  the  people  to  be  moderate." 

"  I  will  make  them  perfectly  enthusiastic  in  the 
cause  of  peace  and  quiet,"  said  Mr.  Krause,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  You  shall  see  how  irresistible  the  stream  of  my 
eloquence  will  be,"  and  striding  forward  with  pathetic 
mien,  and  raising  both  arms  as  if  to  implore  the  people, 
he  exclaimed  in  a  loud  voice:  "You  say  so,  and  it  is  so! 
We  cannot  be  victorious.  Now,  my  opinion  is,  that  as 
we  cannot  beat  the  enemy,  we  ought  not  to  fight  him, 
and  in  that  way  we  can  cheat  him  out  of  his  victory. 
For  where  there  is  no  fight,  there  can  be  no  victory. 
Resist  the  armed  bands  with  the  quiet  obstacle  of  mental 
fortitude.  Do  not  act,  but  submit.  Submit  with  a  de- 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BEELIN.        69 

ll.iiit  air.  Do  not  use  your  weapons,  but  do  not  yield 
iliem  up  to  the  enemy.  Keep  your  hands  on  the  hilts 
of  your  swords,  and  be  quiet.  When  they  mock  and 
abuse  you,  be  silent;  but  let  them  read  your  defiance 
in  your  countenances;  when  they  press  upon  you  with 
sword  and  cannon,  retire  with  a  proud  smile,  and  do  not 
defend  yourselves,  and  we  will  see  whether  they  are 
brutal  enough  to  attack  peaceful  non-combatants.  Act 
in  this  way,  and  the  moral  victory  is  yours,  and  you  then 
will  have  conquered  the  enemy  by  your  moral  greatness, 
even  if  you  are  physically  subdued.  Against  cannon 
and  bayonets  a  people  cannot  defend  themselves  except 
by  passive  resistance,  by  submission,  with  secret  and  si- 
lent hatred  in  their  hearts.  Use  no  other  weapons  than 
this  passive  resistance,  and  posterity  will  praise  you, 
and  say  of  you,  with  admiration,  that  you  were  no  heroes 
of  fight,  but  heroes  of  passive  resistance.  Your  country 
will  be  proud  of  you!  " 

Mr.  Krause  paused,  and  leaned,  worn  out,  on  the 
shoulder  of  the  prophetic  linen-weaver. 

"  You  may  be  in  the  right,"  said  the  tailor,  still  re- 
bellious at  heart;  "  all  that  sounds  right  and  reasonable, 
but  still  it  don't  suit  me,  and  I  don't  see  how  the  country 
can  be  proud  of  us,  if  we  behave  like  cowards,  and  let 
ourselves  be  bamboozled  this  way." 

"  Do  you  hush,  tailor!  "  cried  the  hunchbacked  shoe- 
maker. "  The  chap  thinks  because  he  can  manage  a 
sharp  needle,  he  must  be  able  to  yield  a  broadsword;  but 
let  me  tell  you,  my  brave  boy,  that  a  stick  with  a  sword 
hurts  worse  than  a  prick  with  a  needle.  It  is  not  only 
written,  '  Shoemaker,  stick  to  your  last,'  but  also.  '  Tai- 
lor, stick  to  your  needle.'  Are  we  soldiers,  that  we  must 
fight?  No,  we  are  respectable  citizens,  tailors  and  shoe- 
makers, and  the  whole  concern  is  no  business  of  ouri. 


70  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

And  who  is  going  to  pay  us  for  our  legs  and  arms  when 
they  have  been  cut  off?  " 

"  Nobody,  nobody  is  going  to  do  it! "  cried  a  voice 
from  the  crowd. 

"  And  who  is  going  to  take  care  of  our  wives  and 
children  when  we  are  crippled,  and  can't  earn  bread  for 
them?  Perhaps  they  are  going  to  put  us  in  the  new 
almshouse,  which  has  just  been  built  outside  of  the 
King's  Gate,  and  which  they  call  the  Oxen-head." 

"  No,  no,  we  won't  go  into  the  Oxen-head !  "  screamed 
the  people.  "  We  won't  fight!  let  us  go  home." 

"  Yes,  go  home,  go  home! "  cried  Krause  and 
Kretschmer,  delighted,  and  Pfannenstiel  repeated  after 
them — 

"  Let  us  go  home!  " 

And  indeed  the  groups  began  to  separate  and  thin 
out;  and  the  two  editors,  who  had  descended  from  their 
bench,  mixed  with  the  crowd,  and  enforced  their  peace- 
ful arguments  with  zealous  eloquence. 

But  it  seemed  as  if  Fortune  did  not  favor  them,  for 
now  down  the  neighboring  street  came  Gotzkowsky  with 
his  band  of  armed  workmen.  He  drew  them  up  in  front 
of  the  town-hall.  The  sight  of  this  bold  company  of 
daring  men,  with  determined  countenances  and  flashing 
eyes,  exercised  a  magical  influence  on  the  people;  and 
when  Gotzkowsky  addressed  them,  and  with  overpower- 
ing eloquence  and  burning  words  implored  them  to  re- 
sist, when  with  noble  enthusiasm  he  summoned  them 
to  do  their  duty,  and  to  remember  their  honors  as  men, 
the  versatile  crowd  began  again  to  cry  out — "  Arms, 
arms!  give  us  arms!  " 

But  the  humpbacked  shoemaker  still  remained  cowed 
and  timid,  and  the  threatenings  of  the  preachers  of  peace 
still  sounded  in  his  ears.  He  threw  up  his  arms  and 


THE  MERCHANT  Ot   BERLIN.  71 

cried  out:  "  Children,  remember  what  the  gentlemen 
told  us.  Have  nothing  to  do  with  fighting.  Be  wise 
and  prudent! " 

"  The  devil  take  your  prudence!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky. 
In  an  hour  like  this  we  have  no  need  of  prudence; 
we  want  courage!  Won't  you  fight?" 

"  No,  we  won't! "  cried  the  shoemaker,  resolutely. 
"  We  want  to  keep  our  arms  and  legs." 

"  We  don't  want  to  go  to  the  Oxen-head!  "  exclaimed 
another. 

Gotzkowsky  broke  out  impetuously:  "Are  you  men, 
who  dare  to  talk  in  this  way?  You  are  afraid  of  losing 
your  limbs,  and  you  are  not  afraid  of  losing,  by  your 
cowardice,  your  most  valuable  possessions,  your  liberty 
and  your  honor.  Even  if  you  do  crawl  through  our 
streets  as  cripples,  your  wives  and  children  will  point  to 
you  with  pride,  and  men  will  whisper  to  each  other,  '  He 
too  was  one  of  the  heroes  who  fought  for  liberty,  one  of 
the  brave  men  who,  when  Berlin  was  besieged,  met  the 
enemy,  and  fought  bravely  for  our  rights.' " 

a  That's  fine,"  cried  the  tailor,  carried  away  by  Gotz- 
kowsky's  fiery  words.  "Yes,  let  us  be  heroes,  let  us 
fight! " 

At  the  windows  of  the  town-hall  above,  hid  behind 
the  curtains,  the  wise  members  of  the  city  Council  still 
stood  and  listened  with  anxious  hearts  to  what  was  go- 
ing on  below.  The  countenance  of  the  chief  burgo- 
master became  ashy  pale,  and  drops  of  cold  sweat  stood 
on  his  brow.  "This  Gotzkowsky  will  ruin  us  all," 
sighed  he  heavily.  "  He  does  not  think  what  he  is  do- 
ing. His  foolhardiness  will  compel  us  all  to  be  brave. 
But  we  will  have  to  pay  for  our  liberty,  not  only  with  our 
blood,  but  with  our  fortunes.  And  this  man,  who  cal- 
culates so  badly,  pretends  to  be  a  merchant!  But  we 


72  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

must  yield  to  this  rash  mob,  for  to  oppose  an  excited 
people  might  bring  even  the  honorable  Council  into 
danger.  Good  Heavens!  "  cried  he,  interrupting  him- 
self, "  what  is  this  again?  " 

To  the  sound  of  martial  music,  there  was  seen  com- 
ing down  the  street  a  band  of  scar-covered  veterans,  the 
invalids  of  the  first  years  of  the  war.  Some  limped, 
others  carried  their  arms  in  slings,  others  again  had 
their  heads  bound  up;  but  one  could  perceive,  by  their 
serious,  determined  faces,  that  they  were  animated  by  a 
high  and  cheerful  courage,  which  placed  them  above 
physical  suffering.  In  their  midst,  on  a  litter,  was  borne 
the  brave  General  von  Seidlitz,  whose  wounds,  received 
in  the  battle  of  Kunersdorf,  had  not  yet  healed;  but  the 
danger  which  threatened  Berlin  had  roused  him  from  a 
bed  of  suffering,  and,  as  he  could  not  walk,  he  had  him- 
self carried  to  the  battery  at  the  Kottbuss  Gate,  the  de- 
fence of  which  he  had  undertaken. 

As  the  hero  turned  to  the  people  with  a  friendly 
greeting,  and  exhorted  them  to  courage,  with  short  and 
appropriate  words,  there  sounded  from  a  thousand  voices 
an  enthusiastic  "  Hurrah! "  The  people  waved  their 
hats,  and  cried  loudly  and  tumultuously  up  at  the  win- 
dows of  the  Council,  "  Give  us  arms — arms!  " 

At  the  window  above  stood  the  chief  burgomaster, 
with  trembling  limbs  and  livid  face.  "  It  is  decided," 
said  he,  softly;  "the  people  of  Berlin  are  determined 
to  die  as  heroes,  or  purchase  their  liberty  with  all  the 
wealth  of  the  town,"  and,  with  a  weak  cry  of  grief,  he 
sank  fainting  into  the  arms  of  the  head  alderman. 

The  assistant  burgomaster  opened  the  window  and 
cried  out:  "You  shall  have  arms.  We  will  defend 
Berlin  with  our  last  breath,  and  to  the  last  drop  of  our 
blood! " 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  JiEKLIN.  73 

CHAPTER    XI. 

THE    NIGHT    OF   HORRORS. 

THUS,  once  more,  had  the  impetuous  boldness  of  the 
patriots  carried  the  day  against  braggart  cowardice. 
The  Council,  yielding  to  necessity,  had  resolved  to  be 
brave.  The  chief  burgomaster,  who  had  revived,  donned 
his  robe  of  office,  adorned  himself  with  his  golden  chain, 
and  followed  by  the  councillors,  proceeded  to  Command- 
er Rochow,  to  ask  for  arms  for  the  citizens  of  Berlin. 
This  petition  was  readily  granted;  the  armory  was 
thrown  open,  and  there  were  seen,  not  only  men  and 
youths,  old  men  and  boys,  but  even  women  and  girls, 
arming  themselves  for  the  sacred  fight  for  fatherland 
and  freedom.  As  if  on  a  pilgrimage,  the  people  proceed- 
ed to  the  armory  in  a  long,  solemn  procession,  silent  and 
devout,  a  noble  determination,  a  brave  and  cheerful  but 
subdued  expression  observable  in  every  face.  No  loud 
cries,  not  a  rude  word,  nor  boisterous  laughter  was  heard 
from  this  crowd.  Each  one  spoke  in  low  and  earnest 
tones  to  his  neighbor;  every  one  was  conscious  of  the 
deep  significance  of  the  hour,  and  feared  to  interrupt 
the  religious  service  of  the  country  by  a  word  spoken  too 
loud.  In  silent  devotion  they  crossed  the  threshold  of 
the  armory,  with  light  and  measured  steps  the  crowd 
circulated  through  the  rooms,  and  with  solemn  calmness 
and  a  silent  prayer  in  their  hearts,  the  people  received 
from  the  hands  of  the  veteran  soldiers  the  weapons  for 
the  defence  of  their  country.  And  the  flags  which  hung 
around  on  the  walls  as  shining  mementoes  of  former 
victories,  seemed  to  greet  the  people  as  patriots  who 
were  arming  themselves  for  the  holy  fight  against  the 
enemy  of  their  country,  the  destroyer  of  liberty. 


74  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

For  it  was  no  longer  a  fight  for  Silesia,  a  strip  of 
territory,  which  was  to  be  fought,  but  a  struggle  be- 
tween intellect  and  brute  power,  between  civilization  and 
barbarism,  the  inevitable  companion  of  the  Eussian 
hordes.  Prussia  represented  Germany,  and  on  her  wav- 
ing banner  she  bore  the  civilization,  refinement,  science, 
and  poetry  of  Germany.  Her  opponent  was  no  longer 
the  German  brother,  sprung  from  the  same  stock;  it 
was  the  Austrian,  who  had  called  in  the  assistance  of 
foreign  barbarians,  and  who  was  fighting  the  Germans, 
the  Prussians,  with  the  help  of  the  Eussians.  For  that 
reason,  the  hatred  against  the  Austrian  was  among  the 
Prussian  troops  much  more  bitter  and  bloody  than  the 
hatred  and  abhorrence  of  the  Eussians,  the  sworn  enemy 
of  the  German;  and  when,  therefore,  the  Berlin  citizens 
learned  that  the  Austrians,  too,  were  approaching  under 
Count  Lacy,  this  news  was  considered  by  these  soldier- 
citizens  as  a  consecration  of  their  arms. 

"Better  be  buried  under  the  walls  of  Berlin  than 
yield  to  the  Austrian! "  was  the  war-cry  of  the  people, 
who  flocked  in  constantly  renewed  streams  to  the  armory 
for  weapons,  the  watchword  of  the  brave  militia  who 
hastened  to  all  the  gates  to  defend  them  against  the 
enemy. 

But  all  the  streets  did  not  offer  so  lively  or  proud  an 
appearance.  "Whilst  the  citizens  and  the  warriors  scarce- 
ly recovered  from  their  wounds,  whilst  the  people  were 
arming  themselves  to  defend  wife  and  child,  and  the 
sacred  liberty  of  fatherland;  whilst  these  brave  troops 
were  hurrying  toward  the  Dresden  and  Kottbuss  Gates 
to  meet  the  Eussians,  others  were  seen  hastening  down 
the  Linden  and  Frederick  Streets.  But  these  crowds 
were  unarmed,  though  not  empty-handed;  their  faces 
were  pale,  and  their  eyes  were  gloomy  and  dull.  These 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        75 

were  the  faint-hearted  and  irresolute,  who,  in  fear  and 
trembling,  were  turning  their  backs  on  a  town  in  which 
was  to  be  fought  the  light  for  the  noblest  possessions  of 
mankind.  This  was  the  crowd  of  boasting,  versatile 
flatterers  and  parasites,  who  worshipped  no  other  God 
but  fortune,  and  possessed  no  other  faith  than  that  of 
property  and  personal  safety.  Berlin  might  be  reduced 
to  ashes,  barbarism  and  slavery  might  conquer,  a  foreign 
ruler  might  erect  his  throne  in  the  midst  of  the  down- 
fallen  city,  what  did  they  care,  provided  their  own  lives 
and  money  were  safe? 

At  this  time  they  were  hurrying  along,  pale  with 
fright,  death  and  terror  in  their  distracted  countenances. 
Women  of  the  highest  nobility,  whose  silken-shod  feet 
had  never  before  trod  the  rough  pavement,  fled  with 
hasty  steps  down  the  street;  shoulders  which  had  never 
borne  the  least  burden  of  life  or  sorrow,  were  now  laden 
with  treasures,  and  gold  was  the  parent  whom  these 
modern  ^Encases  sought  to  save  from  the  ruins  of  the 
threatened  town.  All  ranks  and  conditions  were  con- 
founded; no  longer  servant  and  master,  fear  had  made 
brothers  of  them  all.  Countesses  were  seen  smiling  on 
their  valets,  in  order  to  obtain  the  assistance  of  their 
arm  to  a  more  rapid  flight;  high-born  gentlemen  were 
seen  laden  down,  like  the  meanest  of  their  servants,  with 
gold  and  silver  ware,  which  they  were  seeking  to  save 
from  the  beleaguered  city. 

What  did  these  people  care  whether  Berlin  fell,  and 
was  taken  or  not?  What  did  they  care  if  the  throne  of 
the  house  of  Hohenzollern  was  overthrown?  They  had 
but  one  thought,  one  object — safety  in  flight.  So  they 
hurried  down  the  street,  moaning  and  wailing,  breath- 
less and  trembling  in  every  limb,  toward  the  town  gates. 
They  reached  the  goal;  they  stood  before  the  gates  be- 


76  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

yond  which  were  escape  and  safety.  But  these  gates 
were  closed,  and  the  soldiers  who  guarded  them  declared 
that  none  should  pass  them,  that  the  men  must  stay  to 
defend  the  town,  the  women  to  nurse  the  wounded  and 
dying.  All  begging  and  pleading  were  in  vain;  in  vain 
did  the  Jew  Ephraim,  who  had  become  a  millionnaire 
by  the  farming  of  the  mint,  offer  the  sentinel  thousands 
to  open  the  gates;  in  vain  did  the  gentlemen,  once  so 
proud,  entreat;  in  vain  did  the  beautiful  countesses 
wring  their  white  hands  before  the  poor  despised  work- 
man who  now  stood  as  sentinel  at  the  gates.  In  this  mo- 
ment this  poor  man  was  richer  than  the  Hebrew  mint- 
farmer  Ephriam,  for  he  was  rich  in  courage;  mightier 
than  the  proudest  countess,  for  to  his  hands  were  in- 
trusted the  keys  of  a  town;  and  the  town  gates  were  not 
opened  to  these  bands  of  cowards.  They  were  con- 
demned to  remain,  condemned  to  the  torture  of  trem- 
bling fear,  cowardly,  inactive  supplication. 

Howling  and  whining,  they  fled  back  again  into  the 
town,  in  order  at  least  to  bury  their  treasures,  and  hold 
themselves  in  readiness  to  meet  the  victor,  whoever  he 
might  be,  with  flags  of  peace  and  hymns  of  welcome. 

But  before  they  had  reached  their  houses,  bombs  had 
commenced  to  fly  into  the  town,  and  here  and  there 
mortar-shells  were  heard  whizzing  through  the  air;  with 
the  cries  of  the  flying  and  the  wounded,  and  the  screams 
of  the  dying,  was  now  heard  the  moaning  toll  of  the 
alarm-bell,  telling  that  to  the  terrors  of  the  siege  were 
added  those  of  the  elements.  Like  gigantic  torches  of 
a  funeral  procession  shone  the  flames  of  the  burning 
houses,  and  covered  the  heavens  with  crimson  as  deep 
as  the  blood  of  those  wounded  unto  death.  At  last 
night  set  in,  but  brought  no  rest  for  the  sick,  no  refresh- 
ment for  the  weary.  The  fire-balls  and  bomb-shells  still 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        77 

flew  into  the  town,  the  alarm-bells  still  continued  their 
mournful  toll,  the  burning  houses  still  flamed  up  to  the 
sky;  but  yet  the  courage  of  the  besieged  did  not  sink. 
They  still  held  their  ground  intrepidly,  and  they  still 
bade  an  heroic  defiance  to  the  attacks  of  the  enemy.  In 
vain  did  the  Eussians  attempt  to  storm  the  gates,  the 
brave  defenders  drove  them  back  again  and  again.  Sud- 
denly the  cannon  ceased  firing,  and  the  enemy  drew 
back. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this?  "  asked  the  com- 
batants at  the  gates. 

"  The  meaning  is,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  who  had  just 
arrived  from  another  part  of  the  town  with  a  squad 
of  his  workmen — "  the  meaning  is  that  help  is  approach- 
ing. It  means  that  God  is  on  our  side,  and  succors  our 
noble  and  righteous  cause.  The  Prince  of  Wurtemberg 
has  just  arrived  from  Pasewalk  with  his  division,  and 
General  Huelsen  is  hastening  hither  as  rapidly  as  pos- 
sible from  Koswig." 

The  brave  warriors  received  this  news  with  a  loud 
hurrah,  and  embraced  each  other  with  tears  in  their  eyes 
and  thanksgiving  in  their  hearts. 

"  We  are  saved!  "  cried  they  to  each  other:  "  Berlin 
will  not  be  surrendered,  Berlin  will  be  victorious,  for 
help  has  arrived."  And  then  Ihey  sank  down  on  the 
pavement,  to  rest  for  an  hour  on  this  hard  bed,  after  the 
fatigue  of  the  fierce  combat. 

But  Gotzkowsky  could  not  rest.  For  him  there  was 
no  leisure,  no  sleep;  neither  wus  there  any  fear  or  dan- 
ger for  him.  As  he  had  left  his  house,  his  daughter, 
and  his  riches  unguarded,  with  the  same  unconcern  did 
he  move  among  the  rain  of  balls  and  the  bursting  of 
shells.  He  did  not  think  of  death  nor  of  danger!  He 
only  thought  of  his  country,  and  one  great,  lofty  idea — 
6 


78  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

the  idea  of  liberty — burned  in  his  heart  and  animated 
his  whole  being.  The  Council,  knowing  his  influence 
over  the  citizens,  had,  therefore,  as  soon  as  the  Prince  of 
Wurtemberg  had  arrived  with  his  regiment  in  Berlin, 
communicated  this  intelligence  to  the  brave  patriot,  and 
commissioned  him  to  acquaint  his  men  with  the  fact. 
With  glistening  eye  and  beaming  countenance  did  he 
announce  this  significant  intelligence  to  his  brave  war- 
riors, reviving  their  courage,  and  redoubling  their 
strength  as  they  drove  the  enemy  back  from  the  gates 
and  silenced  his  cannon. 

But  yet  in  his  soul  Gotzkowsky  was  sad  and  full  of 
care.  He  had  seen  the  regiments  of  the  Prince  of  Wur- 
temberg as  they  marched  in,  and  he  had  read  in  the 
dull  countenances  of  the  soldiers,  staggering  and  sink- 
ing from  fatigue,  that  they  were  not  able,  nor  even  in  a 
condition,  to  hold  a  sword.  But  yet  his  heart  did  not 
fail  him.  The  elasticity  of  his  courage  seemed  only  to 
increase  with  the  danger.  Perhaps  a  short  rest, 
strengthening  food,  refreshing  wine,  might  restore  to 
these  men  their  lost  strength. 

And  now  for  the  first  time  since  the  attack  of  the 
enemy  did  Gotzkowsky  turn  toward  his  home;  but  not 
to  visit  his  daughter,  not  to  inquire  after  his  property, 
but  to  open  his  wine-cellars,  and  to  let  his  cashier  fill 
his  pockets  with  gold. 

He  then  returned  rapidly  down  the  street  directly 
to  the  town-hall,  where  the  Council  were  in  session,  and 
had  invited  the  most  venerable  citizens  to  consult  with 
them. 

Appearing  before  this  august  body,  Gotzkowsky 
painted,  with  glowing  eloquence  and  impressive  words, 
the  destitute  condition  of  the  regiments  which  had  en- 
tered the  town.  He  demanded  for  them  nourishment 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  79 

and  support;  he  entreated  the  Council  to  give  these 
weary  troops  shelter  and  rest. 

"  First  let  them  eat  and  sleep/'  said  he,  "  and  then 
they  will  fight  for  us  and  conquer.  We  cannot  expect 
courage  from  a  tired  and  starved  man." 

From  the  Council  he  hastened  to  the  rich  merchants 
and  factory  lords.  The  rich  man  went  begging  for  his 
hungry  brethren,  and  his  pride  did  not  feel  itself  low- 
ered by  the  petition.  No  one  could  resist  his  impetuous 
eagerness;  every  one  was  carried  away  by  his  unselfish 
and  impulsive  magnanimity.  For  the  moment,  even 
earthly  treasures  lost  their  value,  for  more  valuable 
possessions  were  at  stake,  namely,  liberty  and  honor. 
Every  one  gave  cheerfully  and  most  liberally. 

And  now  it  was  a  glorious  sight  to  see  how,  in  a  few 
hours,  the  whole  city  changed  its  appearance.  As  the 
night  before  had  been  full  of  horrors  and  dread  events, 
the  next  morning  and  day  were  like  a  festival,  the  prepa- 
ration to  a  great  and  solemn  feast.  Forty  of  the  largest 
and  fattest  oxen  were  slaughtered,  to  afford  a  strengthen- 
ing meal  to  those  so  much  in  need  of  nourishment. 
About  mid-day,  a  strange  procession  moved  down  the 
Konig's  Street  and  across  the  Palace  Square.  And  what 
was  the  meaning  of  it?  It  was  not  a  funeral,  for  there 
were  no  mourning- wreaths  and  no  hearse;  it  was  not  a 
bridal  procession,  for  the  bridal  paraphernalia  and  joy- 
ous music  were  wanting.  NOT  did  it  wend  its  way  to- 
ward the  church  nor  the  churchyard,  but  toward  the  new 
and  handsome  opera-house,  recently  erected  by  the  king, 
whose  gates  were  opened  wide  to  receive  it.  It  looked 
like  a  feast  of  Bacchus  at  one  time,  from  the  enormous 
tuns  driven  along;  at  another  time  like  a  festival  of 
Ceres,  as  in  solemn  ranks  came  the  bakers  bringing  thou- 
sands of  loaves  in  large  wagons.  Then  followed  the 


80  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

white-capped  cooks,  bringing  the  smoking  beef  in  large 
caldrons.  The  rear  was  finally  brought  up  by  the  but- 
lers, with  large  baskets  of  wine. 

And  the  beautiful  and  resplendent  temple  of  art  was 
thrown  open  to  the  reception  of  all  these  things,  al- 
though they  only  served  for  material  nourishment,  and 
in  the  magnificent  hall  in  which  formerly  Frederick  the 
Great,  with  his  generals  and  chosen  friends,  listened  to 
the  magic  strains  of  Gluck,  there  sounded  now  a  wild 
confusion  of  discordant  cries.  The  butlers  stood  by  the 
wine-casks,  filling  the  bottles  which  were  carried  out  by 
the  nimble  and  active  vivandieres,  and  on  the  same  stage 
on  which  once  Galiari  and  Barbarini,  Ostroa  and  Sam- 
beni  enchanted  the  public  with  their  marvellous  sing- 
ing, were  seen  now  large  caldrons  of  beef;  and,  instead 
of  the  singers,  the  performance  was  conducted  by  cooks, 
who  drew  the  meat  out  of  the  pots,  and  arranged  it  neat- 
ly on  enormous  dishes.  Gotzkowsky  had  attained  his 
object,  and  Berlin  fed  this  day  the  exhausted  and  hungry 
troops  of  the  Prince  of  Wurtemberg.  The  merchant 
of  Berlin  had  given  his  choicest  and  best  wines  to  the 
banquet  of  patriotism. 


CHAPTER    XII. 

RUSSIANS    AND   AUSTRIANS. 

AFTER  so  many  horrors  and  so  many  hows  of  anx~ 
iety,  at  last,  on  the  evening  of  the  second  day  of  the  siege, 
a  momentary  suspension  of  hostilities  occurred.  Berlin 
rested  after  the  excitement  and  turmoil,  and  even  the 
besiegers  seemed  to  be  reposing.  Shells  and  fire-balls 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  81 

110  longer  hissed  through  the  groaning  air,  and  the  thun- 
der of  the  cannon  had  died  away.  Peace — the  peace 
arising  from  disabling  exhaustion  on  the  part  of  the 
combatants,  reigned  for  a  short  while,  and  the  belliger- 
ents rested  for  a  few  hours  to  invigorate  themselves  for 
a  renewal  of  the  fight.  The  streets  of  Berlin,  lit  by  the 
dull  lamplight,  were  forsaken  and  empty,  and  only  oc- 
casionally from  the  dark  houses  was  heard  wailing  and 
moaning,  either  the  death-struggle  of  a  wounded  man 
or  the  lamentations  of  his  mourning  friends.  This 
death-like  silence  prevailed  for  several  hours,  when  it 
was  broken  by  a  peculiar  noise,  sounding  like  the  dull, 
muffled  beat  of  drums,  followed  by  the  measured  tread 
of  marching  troops.  The  sound  approached  nearer  and 
nearer,  and  by  the  dim  light  of  the  street  lamps  one 
could  distinctly  recognize  a  column  of  men  marching  in 
close  order  from  the  opera-house  down  the  Linden 
Street. 

It  consisted  of  more  than  six  thousand  men,  moving 
down  the  "  Linden  "  in  deep  silence,  unbroken  even  by . 
a  word  of  command.  To  see  this  dark  and  silent  column 
passing  along  the  gloomy  and  deserted  street,  was  cal- 
culated to  produce  a  feeling  of  awe  in  the  spectator. 
Any  one  inclined  to  be  superstitious  might  have  im- 
agined this  warlike  force,  marching  through  the  streets 
at  the  hour  of  midnight,  noiseless  and  silent  as  the  grave, 
to  be,  not  living  soldiers,  but  the  large  and  daily  in- 
creasing cohort  of  spirits  of  those  fallen  in  battle,  tak- 
ing its  way  through  the  dying  town,  as  birds  of  prey 
fly  with  prophetic  wing  in  circles  round  the  fields  of 
death. 

And  now  the  head  of  the  column  reaches  the  Bran- 
denburg Gate.  The  sentinel  stands  to  arms  and  chal- 
lenges. The  leader  steps  up  to  the  officer  of  the  guard 


82  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  whispers  a  few  words  in  his  ear.  This  officer  bows 
deeply  and  respectfully,  and  gives  his  sentinel  a  short 
order  in  an  under-tone.  He  then  steps  back  to  his  com- 
mand and  presents  arms.  The  leaves  of  the  gate  then 
turned  creaking  on  their  hinges,  and  in  solemn  silence 
the  column  marched  out.  This  long,  dark  procession 
lasted  nearly  an  hour;  the  gate  then  closed,  and  the 
same  quiet  resumed  its  sway  in  the  streets. 

Berlin  was  dreaming  or  sleeping,  praying  or  weep- 
ing, but  knew  not  that  in  this  hour  fresh  misfortune  had 
fallen  upon  it;  knew  not  that  the  Prince  of  Wurtemberg 
had  just  left  the  town,  and  retired  upon  Spandau  with 
his  regiments,  feeling  himself  too  weak  to  resist  an  ene- 
my three  times  his  number.  And  furthermore,  it  was 
not  aware  that  the  Austrian  Count  Lacy,  who  had  al- 
ready occupied  Potsdam  and  Charlottenburg,  with  his 
division  of  ten  thousand  men,  would  in  a  few  hours  be 
at  the  gates  of  Berlin. 

In  serious  consultation,  in  anxious  and  wavering  ex- 
.pectation,  the  city  fathers  were  assembled  in  the  town- 
hall,  which  they  had  not  quitted  for  two  days.  But,  at 
this  moment,  a  pause  seemed  to  have  occurred  in  their 
deliberations,  for  both  the  chief  burgomaster,  Yon  Kir- 
cheisen,  and  the  aldermen  were  leaning  back  in  their 
high,  carved  chairs,  in  sleepy  repose,  contemplating  the 
wax-lights  in  their  silver  candelabras,  which  shed  a  dim 
and  uncertain  light  into  the  more  distant  parts  of  the 
hall.  One  or  the  other  occasionally  threw  an  inquiring 
glance  toward  the  door,  and  leaned  forward  as  if  to  lis- 
ten. After  a  while,  steps  were  heard  in  the  antechamber, 
and  the  countenances  of  the  honorable  members  of  the 
Council  lighted  up. 

"  At  last  he  comes/'  said  the  chief  burgomaster,  rais- 
ing himself  with  an  effort  in  his  chair,  and  arranging 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  83 

the  chain  on  his  breast,  which  had  got  a  little  out  of 
order. 

The  door  now  opened,  and  the  merchant  Gotzkowsky 
entered. 

He  approached  the  assembly  with  a  firm  and  hurried 
step.  The  light  of  the  candles  shone  upon  his  counte- 
nance, and  in  his  pale,  worn  features  you  could  read  the 
traces  of  the  hardships,  the  efforts  and  dangers  he  had 
undergone  during  the  last  two  unfortunate  days;  only 
his  eye  still  shone  with  its  mild  and  yet  fiery  glance,  and 
in  his  breast  there  beat  still  a  brave  and  cheerful  heart. 

"  Ye  have  called  me,  honorable  gentlemen,  and,  as  ye 
see,  I  have  not  delayed  in  answering  your  call." 

"  Yes,  we  have  summoned  you,"  answered  the  chief 
burgomaster.  "  The  Council  desire  your  advice." 

A  slight,  mocking  smile  played  about  Gotzkowsky's 
lips.  "  It  is  not  the  first  time,"  he  said,  "  that  the  Coun- 
cil have  done  me  this  honor." 

Herr  von  Kircheisen  plucked  uneasily  at  his  golden 
chain,  and  frowned.  Gotzkowsky's  answer  had  wound- 
ed his  pride.  "  Yes,  you  gave  us  your  advice  yesterday, 
and  it  was  only  by  your  urgent  appeal  that  we  were  in- 
duced to  feed  and  lodge  the  Prince  of  Wurtemberg's 
troops.  We  might  have  spared  ourselves  the  trouble, 
and  our  forty  oxen  remained  unslaughtered." 

"  The  Prince  of  Wurtemberg  has  left  us,  I  know," 
said  Gotzkowsky,  sorrowfully,  "  and  we  are  thrown  again 
on  our  own  resources.  Oh,  I  could  weep  over  it!  Two 
days  and  nights  have  the  citizens  of  Berlin  fought  with 
the  courage  of  a  lioness  defending  her  young,  and  all  in 
vain.  So  much  noble  blood  shed  in  vain! " 

"We  must  surrender,  then?"  said  Kircheisen,  turn- 
ing pale. 

"Unless  the  honorable  Council  can  sow  dragons' 


84  THE   MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN. 

teeth  and  reap  armed  men,  unless  we  can  mould  cannon 
and  create  gunners  to  serve  them.,  we  must,  indeed,  sur- 
render! "  said  Gotzkowsky,  in  a  sad  tone.  "  Yes,  if  we 
had  a  dozen  cannon  like  the  two  at  the  Kottbuss  Gate 
served  by  the  brave  artillerist,  Fritz,  there  might  be 
some  hope  for  us.  Those  were  beautiful  shots.  Like 
the  sickle  of  death  did  they  mow  down  the  ranks  of  the 
enemy,  and  whole  rows  fell  at  once.  Fritz  is  a  hero, 
and  has  built  himself  a  monument  with  the  dead  bodies 
of  the  Russians — and  all  this  for  nothing!  " 

"  For  nothing!  do  you  say?  "  sighed  the  chief  burgo- 
master. "  On  the  contrary,  I  rather  think  it  will  cost  us 
a  mint  of  money.  The  Austrians  have  sent  Prince  Low- 
enstein  in  with  a  flag  of  truce,  to  demand  the  surrender 
of  the  town.  The  Russians  have  also  sent  in  a  flag  of 
truce  with  the  same  demand.  Now  comes  the  important 
question,  To  which  of  these  two  powers  shall  we  sur- 
render? Which  will  give  us  the  best  bargain?  "  and  as 
the  burgomaster  stammered  out  this  question,  he  seized 
a  large  goblet  of  wine  which  stood  before  him  and 
emptied  it  at  a  draught.  He  then  ordered  the  servant, 
who  stood  at  the  door,  to  replenish  it  with  Johannis- 
berger. 

The  aldermen  and  senators  looked  significantly  at 
each  other,  and  the  second  burgomaster  ventured  timid- 
ly to  suggest  that  the  heavy  wine  might  possibly  be  in- 
jurious to  the  health  of  his  honor  the  chief  burgo- 
master. 

"  Wine  makes  a  man  brave,"  he  drawled  out,  "  and  as 
long  as  the  city  fathers  have  good  wine  in  their  cellars, 
the  citizens  of  Berlin  may  sleep  in  peace,  for  so  long 
will  the  Council  have  the  courage  to  brave  the  enemy! 
Let  me  have  wine,  then,  and  be  brave! "  and  again  he 
emptied  the  replenished  goblet.  He  then  stared  com- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  85 

placently  at  the  ceiling,  and  seemed  lost  in  contempla- 
tion of  the  laurel-wreath  painted  above. 

The  second  burgomaster  then  rose  gently  from  his 
seat,  and  taking  Gotzkowsky's  arm,  led  him  with  the 
two  principal  councillors  to  one  of  the  more  remote 
window-seats.  With  a  slight  motion  of  the  hand  and  a 
compassionate  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  he  pointed  across 
to  Herr  von  Kircheisen. 

"  Our  poor  oppressed  chief  wishes  to  acquire  pot- 
valor,"  said  he,  "  and  to  stimulate  himself  into  a  de- 
lirium of  firmness;  but  I  am  afraid  that  the  delirium 
tremens  of  fear  is  the  only  kind  that  he  will  experience. 
The  poor  man  is  very  much  to  be  pitied.  It  is  just  at 
such  a  time,  when  presence  of  mind  is  most  requisite, 
that  the  good  burgomaster  regularly  loses  his  head,  and 
his  brain  rushes  off  with  him  like  a  mad  horse  to  death 
and  destruction." 

"  A.nd  such  a  man  is  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  town 
of  Berlin,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  mournfully. 

"  The  citizens  chose  him,  and  the  king  confirmed 
their  choice,"  said  the  burgomaster;  "  so  we  ought  to 
be  satisfied.  But  now  let  us  come  to  the  subject  which 
induced  us  to  disturb  your  slumbers,  my  friend.  We 
need  your  counsel.  The  Eussians  and  Austrians  both 
summon  us  to  surrender,  and  the  Council  of  Berlin  wish 
your  advice,  Gotzkowsky,  as  to  which  of  these  two  ene- 
mies they  shall  yield." 

"  That  is,  by  Heavens!  a  choice  that  the  devil  himself 
must  envy  us,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  with  a  sad  smile. 
"  To  which  party  shall  we  surrender?  To  the  Austrian, 
who  wears  the  imperial  German  crown,  and  yet  is  the 
enemy  of  Germany!  or  to  the  Eussian,  the  northern  bar- 
barian, whose  delight  it  is  to  trample  every  human  right 
in  the  dust!  Let  me  consider  a  little  while,  for  it  is  a  sad 


86  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  painful  choice."  And  Gotzkowsky  strode  up  and 
down,  absorbed  in  the  deepest  reflection.  Then  turning 
to  the  gentlemen,  after  a  long  pause,  he  asked,  "  To  whom 
shall  we  yield?  If  my  brother  were  among  my  enemies, 
I  would  fear  him  above  all  others;  for  a  brother's  hatred 
is  most  unnatural,  and,  for  that  very  reason,  the  most 
violent.  The  Austrian  is  the  German  brother  of  the 
Prussian,  and  yet  they  are  striving  for  the  right  of  the 
first-born,  instead  of  confederating  for  the  general  good 
in  unity,  in  equal  authority,  equal  power,  and  equal  de- 
termination. On  the  contrary,  Austria  allies  herself  to 
Eussia,  the  sworn  enemy  of  Germany,  and  with  the  as- 
sistance of  this  enemy  fights  against  her  German  broth- 
ers. Therefore,  my  opinion  is  that,  if  we  really  must 
surrender,  and  if  the  Prussian  really  must  yield,  let  it 
not  be  to  Austria.  Subjection  to  an  equal  is  doubly 
humiliating.  It  is  less  painful  to  suffer  death  at  the 
hand  of  a  barbarian  than  to  be  butchered  by  a  brother. 
I  would,  then,  in  this  instance,  give  the  preference  to 
Eussia." 

"  That  is  also  my  opinion,"  said  the  burgomaster, 
and  the  councillors  agreed  with  him.  They  returned  to 
the  table,  at  which  the  chief  burgomaster  still  sat,  gaz- 
ing stupidly  at  the  wine-cup. 

"  Gotzkowsky  is  of  our  opinion,"  said  the  second 
burgomaster,  turning  toward  him;  it  would  be  best  to 
yield  to  the  Eussian." 

"  The  Eussian  is  a  capital  fellow! "  stammered  the 
chief  burgomaster.  "  The  Eussian  has  a  great  deal  of 
money,  and  spends  it  freely.  I  esteem  the  Eussian  as- 
toniihingly;  and  my  decided  opinion  is,  that  we  sur- 
render to  the  Eussian." 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN.  87 

CHAPTER   XIII. 
A  MAIDEN'S  HEAET. 

ELISE  had  passed  the  last  two  days  and  nights  in  her 
room;  nevertheless  she  had  felt  no  fear;  the  thunder  of 
the  cannon  and  the  wail  of  the  wounded  had  inspired  her 
with  mournful  resignation  rather  than  with  fear.  As, 
at  one  time,  she  stood  at  the  window,  a  shell  burst  near 
the  house,  and  shattered  the  window-panes  of  the  ground 
floor. 

"  Oh,  if  this  ball  had  only  struck  me,"  cried  she, 
while  her  cheeks  burned,  "  then  all  this  suffering  would 
have  been  at  an  end,  this  doubt  would  have  been  cleared 
up:  and  if  my  father  ever  again  gave  himself  the  trouble 
to  visit  his  house,  and  ask  after  his  daughter,  my  death 
would  be  the  proper  rebuke  to  his  question."  Her  fa- 
ther's long  absence  and  apparent  indifference  tormented 
her  and  converted  her  grief  into  anger. 

During  these  days  of  danger  and  mortal  peril  he  had 
never  once  entered  his  house  to  visit  his  daughter.  With 
the  unmitigated  egotism  of  her  sex,  she  could  not  com- 
prehend the  greatness,  the  noble  self-denial,  the  manly 
firmness  which  dictated  his  conduct;  she  could  see  in  it 
nothing  but  indifference  and  eold-heartedness. 

"  The  most  insignificant  and  unpolished  workman  is 
dearer  to  him  than  his  own  child,"  said  she,  proudly, 
drying  her  tears.  "  He  is  now,  perhaps,  watching  in  the 
cabins  of  his  laborers,  and  does  not  care  if  his  own  house 
is  burned  to  the  ground;  but  even  if  he  were  told  that 
it  was  so,  if  he  heard  that  his  daughter  had  perished  in 
the  flames,  he  would  calmly  say,  '  My  country  demands 
this  sacrifice  of  me,  and  I  submit.'  No  tear  would  dim 


88  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

his  eye;  his  country  would  not  leave  him  time  to  mourn 
for  his  daughter.  Oh,  this  country!  what  is  it?  My 
country  is  where  I  am  happy,  and  where  I  am  beloved!  " 
She  sighed  deeply,  and  her  thoughts  wandered  to  her 
lover,  her  Feodor,  the  enemy  of  her  country,  in  whose 
heart  she  thought  she  would  find  her  real  country,  her 
true  home. 

The  spoiled  child  of  fortune,  always  accustomed  to 
see  every  wish  fulfilled,  Elise  had  not  learned  the  power 
of  self-control,  nor  to  bend  her  will  to  any  higher  power. 
Fortune  seemed  anxious  to  spare  yet  awhile  this  warm, 
loving  heart,  and  to  allow  her  a  little  longer  the  free- 
dom of  happy  ignorance,  before  it  initiated  her  into  the 
painful  and  tearful  mysteries  of  actual  life.  Besides 
this,  Elise  had  inherited  from  her  father  a  strong  will 
and  dauntless  courage,  and  behind  her  bright,  dreamy 
eyes  dwelt  a  proud  and  spirited  soul.  Like  her  father, 
her  whole  soul  yearned  for  freedom  and  independence; 
but  the  difference  between  them  was,  that  while  she 
only  understood  freedom  as  applying  to  herself  person- 
ally, Gotzkowsky's  more  capacious  mind  comprehended 
it  in  its  larger  and  more  general  sense.  She  wished  for 
freedom  only  for  herself;  he  desired  it  for  his  country, 
and  he  would  willingly  have  allowed  his  own  person  to 
be  cast  into  bonds  and  fetters,  if  he  could  thereby  have 
secured  the  liberties  of  the  people.  Out  of  this  simi- 
larity, as  well  as  from  this  difference  of  character,  arose 
all  the  discord  which  occasionally  threatened  to  disturb 
the  harmony  of  these  two  hearts. 

Gotzkowsky  could  not  understand  the  heart  of  the 
young  maiden,  nor  Elise  that  of  the  noble  patriot.  To 
these  two  strong  and  independent  natures  there  had 
been  wanting  the  gentle,  soothing  influence  of  a  mother's 
love,  acting  conciliatingly  on  both.  Elise's  mother  had 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  89 

died  while  she  was  young,  and  the  child  was  left  to  tlu 
care  of  strangers.  Her  father  could  seldom  find  time  U 
be  with  his  daughter;  but,  though  seldom  personal!) 
present,  yet  his  whole  soul  was  faithfully,  unalterably 
devoted  to  her.  Elise  did  not  suspect  this,  and  in  conse- 
quence of  seldom  seeing  or  meeting  him,  and  the  want 
of  mutual  intercourse,  the  heart  of  his  daughter  became 
estranged  from  him,  and  in  the  soul  of  this  young  girl, 
just  budding  into  life,  brought  up  without  companions, 
in  the  midst  of  wealth  and  plenty,  arose  at  first  the 
doubt,  and  later  the  conviction,  of  the  indifference  of  her 
father  toward  his  only  child.  But  proud  as  she  was, 
and  full  of  a  feeling  of  independence,  she  never  met 
him  with  a  reproach  or  complaint,  but  withdrew  into 
herself,  and  as  she  believed  herself  repelled,  strove  also, 
on  her  part,  to  emancipate  herself. 

"  Love  cannot  be  forced,  nor  can  it  be  had  for  the 
asking,"  said  she,  as,  yielding  sometimes  to  a  natural 
childish  feeling,  she  felt  an  irresistible  longing  to  go  to 
her  father,  whom  she  had  not  seen  the  livelong  day;  to 
hunt  him  up  in  the  midst  of  his  work,  to  lay  herself 
gently  on  his  breast,  and  say  to  him:  "  Love  me,  father, 
for  without  love  we  are  both  so  lonely!  "  Once  she  had 
yielded  to  the  impulse  of  her  heart,  and  had  gone  down 
to  his  work-room,  to  take  refuge  with  all  her  love  and  all 
her  desire  in  her  father's  heart.  It  was  on  the  very  day 
that  Gotzkowsky  had  returned  from  a  most  important 
journey.  He  had  been  absent  for  weeks  from  his  daugh- 
ter, and  yet  his  first  visit  had  not  been  to  her,  but  to  the 
work-room,  which  he  had  not  left  since  his  arrival.  But 
Elise  did  not  know  that  he  had  travelled  with  relays  of 
horses,  and  that,  in  spite  of  the  intensely  bitter  weather, 
he  had  driven  day  and  night,  allowing  himself  no  rest 
nor  refreshment,  in  order  to  reach  home  as  rapidly  a.s 


90  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

possible,  solely  from  desire  to  see  his  daughter,  whose 
fair  and  lovely  countenance  was  the  star  which  lighted 
his  dreary,  lonesome  hours  of  toil,  and  inspired  him  with 
courage  and  cheerfulness.  Nor  could  she  know  that  he 
had  only  undertaken  this  journey  because,  by  the  failure 
of  one  of  the  largest  mercantile  firms  in  the  Netherlands, 
his  own  house  had  been  put  in  danger,  and  he  had  been 
threatened  with  the  loss  of  his  hard-earned  wealth. 

With  palpitating  heart,  and  tears  of  love  in  her  eyes, 
she  entered  his  room.  Her  whole  bearing  was  sublime, 
full  of  tenderness  and  warmth,  full  of  the  humble  love 
of  a  child.  But  Gotzkowsky  scarcely  raised  his  eyes 
from  his  books  and  papers,  did  not  advance  to  meet  her, 
did  not  leave  the  circle  of  his  officials  and  servants,  did 
not  even  break  off  the  conversation  he  was  engaged  in 
with  the  directors  of  his  silk-factory.  And  yet  Elise 
drew  nearer  to  him,  her  heart  yearned  so  to  bid  him  wel- 
come. She  laid  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  whispered 
an  affectionate  greeting  in  his  ear.  Gotzkowsky  only 
looked  at  her  hastily,  and  replied  almost  impatiently,  "  I 
pray  you,  my  child,  do  not  disturb  me;  we  are  busy  with 
very  important  matters." 

It  certainly  was  business  of  great  importance,  which 
monopolized  Gotzkowsky's  attention  immediately  on  his 
return.  It  was  a  question  of  nearly  half  a  million, 
which  he  would  probably  lose  in  consequence  of  a  royal 
decree  just  issued.  This  decree  ordained  that  the  new 
Frederick  d'ors  coined  by  the  Jewish  farmer  of  the  mint, 
and  which  were  much  too  light,  should  be  received  at  par 
all  over  the  whole  kingdom,  and  even  at  the  treasury  of- 
fices. It  was,  therefore,  but  natural  that  all  debtors  would 
hasten  to  pay  their  creditors  in  this  coin  which  had  im- 
parted to  it  so  sudden  and  unexpected  a  value.  Gotz- 
kowsky had  received  from  his  debtors  upward  of  eight 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  91 

hundred  thousand  dollars  in  this  light  coin,  while  his 
foreign  creditors  absolutely  refused  to  take  them,  and  de- 
manded the  payment  of  their  debts  in  good  money. 
Gotzkowsky,  who,  in  consequence  of  his  large  and  exten- 
sive connections  abroad,  had  about  three  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars  in  exchange  against  him,  paid  his  creditors 
in  gold  of  full  weight,  and  lost  by  these  transactions 
three  hundred  thousand  dollars  in  one  day. 

Just  at  the  moment  when  this  heavy  loss  befell  him, 
Elise  appeared,  to  welcome  him.  His  heart  sank  as  he 
beheld  her,  for  as  he  looked  at  her  this  loss  appeared  in 
its  full  magnitude;  it  seemed  as  if  not  he,  but  his  child, 
had  lost  a  portion  of  her  wealth. 

Elise  knew  and  suspected  nothing.  She  only  felt 
that  she  had  been  repulsed,  and  she  withdrew,  deeply 
wounded  and  mortified,  with  the  vow  never  to  run  the 
risk  again  of  such  another  rebuff,  such  another  humilia- 
tion. 

Gotzkowsky  lost  in  this  hour,  not  only  the  three  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars,  but,  what  he  valued  above  all 
earthly  treasures,  the  affection  of  his  daughter,  and  both 
without  any  fault  of  his  own.  Elise  forced  herself  to 
close  her  heart  against  her  father,  or  at  least  to  conquer 
her  grief  at  the  supposed  indifference,  or  quiet,  luke- 
warm inclination.  And  yet  this  ardent  heart  longed  for 
love,  as  the  plant  longs  for  the  sunshine  which  is  to 
penetrate  it,  and  ripen  it  into  wonderful  bloom.  Had 
the  friend  and  companion  of  her  youth,  Bertram,  been 
near  her,  she  would  have  confided  all  her  sorrows  to  him, 
and  found  consolation  on  his  breast.  But  he  had  been 
absent  for  about  a  year  on  his  long  journey;  and  Elise's 
heart,  which  had  always  clung  to  him  with  a  sisterly 
affection,  became  more  and  more  alienated  from  the 
friend  of  her  youth. 


92  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

But  fate  or  perhaps  her  evil  destiny  ordained  that, 
about  this  time,  she  should  make  the  acquaintance  of  a 
young  man  who  quickly  won  the  love  of  her  vacant 
heart,  and  filled  its  void. 

This  young  man  was  Colonel  Feodor  von  Brenda, 
whom  the  fortune  of  war  had  thrown  into  Berlin. 

Elise  loved  him.  With  joy  and  delight,  with  the  un-. 
bounded  confidence  of  innocence,  she  gave  her  whole 
heart  up  to  this  new  sensation. 

And,  indeed,  this  young  colonel  was  a  very  brilliant 
and  imposing  personage.  He  was  one  of  those  Eussian 
aristocrats  who,  on  the  Continent,  in  their  intercourse 
with  the  noblest  and  most  exclusive  society  of  Germany 
and  France,  acquire  that  external  adroitness  and  social 
refinement,  that  brilliant  graceful  polish,  which  so  well 
conceals  the  innate  barbarism  and  cunning  of  the  natu- 
ral character  of  the  Russian. 

He  was  a  bright  companion,  sufficiently  conversant 
with  arts  and  sciences  to  talk  on  every  subject,  without 
committing  himself.  He  knew  how  to  converse  on  all 
topics  fluently  enough,  without  betraying  the  superficial 
character  of  his  knowledge  and  his  studies.  Educated 
at  the  court  of  the  Empress  Elizabeth,  life  had  appeared 
to  him  in  all  its  voluptuousness  and  fulness,  but  at  the 
same  time  had  soon  been  stripped  of  all  its  fancies  and 
illusions.  For  him  there  existed  no  ideals  and  no  inno- 
cence, no  faith,  not  even  a  doubt  which  in  itself  implies 
a  glimmer  of  faith;  for  him  there  was  nothing  but  the 
plain,  naked,  undeceivable  disenchantment,  and  pleas- 
ure was  the  only  thing  in  which  he  still  believed. 

This  pleasure  he  pursued  with  all  the  energy  of  his 
originally  noble  and  powerful  character;  and  as  all  his 
divinities  had  been  destroyed,  all  holy  ideals  had  dis- 
solved into  myths  and  hollow  phantoms,  he  wished  to 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  93 

secure  one  divinity,  at  least,  to  whom  he  could  raise 
an  altar,  whom  he  could  worship:  this  divinity  was 
Pleasure. 

Pleasure  he  sought  everywhere,  in  all  countries;  and 
the  more  ardently  and  eagerly  he  sought  it,  the  less  was 
he  able  to  find  it.  Pleasure  was  the  first  modest,  coy 
woman  who  cruelly  shunned  him,  and  the  more  he  pur- 
sued her,  the  more  coldly  did  she  seem  to  fly  him. 

And  now  he  converted  his  whole  life  into  an  ad- 
venture, a  kind  of  quixotic  pursuit  of  the  lost  loved  one, 
Pleasure.  In  the  mean  time,  his  heart  was  dead  to  all 
the  better  and  nobler  feelings.  But,  at  one  time,  it 
seemed  as  if  a  higher  and  more  serious  inclination  prom- 
ised permanently  to  enchain  this  dreaded  rival  of  all 
husbands  and  lovers. 

Feodor  von  Brenda,  the  most  blase,  witty,  insolent 
cavalier  at  the  court  of  his  empress,  became  suddenly 
serious  and  silent.  On  his  proud  countenance  was  seen, 
for  the  first  time,  the  light  of  a  soft  and  gentle  feeling, 
and  when  he  approached  his  beautiful  bride,  the  Count- 
ess Lodoiska  von  Sandomir,  there  beamed  from  his  dark 
eyes  a  glow  holier  and  purer  than  the  fire  of  sensuality. 
Could  he  have  fled  with  her  into  some  desert,  could  he 
have  withdrawn  into  the  stillness  of  his  mountain  castle, 
he  would  have  been  saved;  but  life  held  him  with  its 
thousand  minute,  invisible  threads,  and  the  experiences 
of  his  past  years  appeared  to  mock  him  for  his  credulity 
and  confidence. 

Besides  this  woman,  whom  he  adored  as  an  angel, 
arose  the  demon  of  skepticism  and  mistrust,  and  regard- 
ed him  with  mocking  smiles  and  looks  of  contempt;  but 
still  Feodor  von  Brenda  was  a  name  of  honor,  a  cavalier 
to  whom  his  pledged  word  was  sacred,  and  who  was 
ready  to  pay  the  debt  of  honor  which  he  had  incurred 


94:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

toward  his  betrothed;  and  this  love  for  the  Countess 
Lodoiska,  although  cankered  by  doubt  and  gnawed  by 
the  experiences  of  his  own  life,  still  had  sufficient  power 
over  him  to  cause  the  future  to  appear  not  gloomy  but 
full  of  promise,  and  to  allow  him  to  hope,  if  not  for 
happiness,  at  least  for  rest  and  enjoyment. 

The  war-cry  roused  him  from  these  dreams  and 
doubts  of  love.  Elizabeth  had  united  with  Maria 
Theresa  against  Frederick  of  Prussia,  and  the  Empress  of 
Russia  was  about  to  send  an  army  to  the  support  of  her 
ally.  Feodor  awoke  from  the  sweet  rest  into  which  his 
heart  had  sunk,  and,  like  Rinaldo,  had  torn  asunder  the 
rosy  chains  by  which  his  Armida  had  sought  to  fetter 
him.  He  followed  the  Eussian  colors,  and  accompanied 
General  Sievers  as  his  adjutant  to  Germany. 

As  to  him  all  life  was  only  an  adventure,  he  wished 
also  to  enjoy  the  exciting  pastime  of  war.  This,  at  least, 
was  something  new,  a  species  of  pleasure  and  amusement 
he  had  not  yet  tried,  and  therefore  the  young  colonel 
gave  himself  up  to  it  with  his  whole  soul,  and  an  ardent 
desire  to  achieve  deeds  of  valor. 

But  it  was  his  fate  to  be  carried  early  from  the  theatre 
of  war  as  a  prisoner,  and  in  this  character  he  arrived 
with  General  Sievers  at  Berlin.  But  his  durance  was 
light,  his  prison  the  large  and  pleasant  city  of  Berlin,  in 
which  he  could  wander  about  perfectly  free  with  the 
sole  restriction  of  not  going  beyond  the  gates. 

General  Sievers  became  accidentally  acquainted  with 
Gotzkowsky,  and  this  acquaintance  soon  ripened  into  a 
more  intimate  friendship.  He  passed  the  greater  part 
of  his  days  in  Gotzkowsky's  house.  As  a  lover  of  art, 
he  could  remain  for  hours  contemplating  the  splendid 
pictures  which  Gotzkowsky  had  bought  for  the  king  in 
Italy,  and  which  had  not  yet  been  delivered  at  Sana 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  95 

Souci;  or,  by  the  side  of  the  manufacturer  he  traversed 
the  large  halls  of  the  factory  in  which  an  entirely  new 
life,  a  world  of  which  he  had  no  idea,  was  laid  open  to 
him.  And  then  again  Gotzkowsky  would  impart  to  him 
the  wide  and  gigantic  plans  which  occupied  his  mind; 
and  this  disclosed  to  him  a  view  into  a  new  era  which 
arose  beyond  the  present  time,  an  era  when  industry 
would  command  and  raise  the  now  despised  workman 
into  the  important  and  respected  citizen. 

While  Gotzkowsky  and  his  friend  the  general  were 
discussing  these  extensive  plans,  and  speculating  about 
the  future  of  industry,  the  young  people,  Elise  and  the 
adjutant,  were  dreaming  about  the  future  of  their  love. 

The  colonel  had  only  commenced  this  love-affair 
with  the  daughter  of  the  rich  manufacturer  as  a  new 
adventure.  It  was  so  piquant  to  go  through  all  the 
stages  of  a  romantic,  dreamy  German  love,  with  a  pure, 
innocent  German  girl,  and  to  let  himself  be  led  by  her 
through  the  sacred  mazes  of  innocent  romance,  holy 
transports,  and  chaste  affection — it  was  so  pleasant  a 
diversion  of  his  captivity,  why  should  he  not  enjoy  it? 

This  attachment  to  Elise  was  for  him  at  first  only 
a  temporary  amusement,  and  he  toyed  with  his  vows 
and  wooing,  until,  imperceptibly,  he  found  his  heart 
entangled  in  his  own  net.  The  ardent  yet  innocent 
love  of  the  young  girl  touched  his  feelings.  It  was 
something  new  to  be  the  object  of  so  chaste  and  devoted 
an  affection.  He  was  ashamed  of  himself  in  his  inmost 
eoul  to  perceive  with  what  childish  trust,  what  sacred  se- 
curity and  humble  resignation  this  young,  rich,  and 
beautiful  maiden  gave  herself  up  to  him. 

For  the  first  time,  he  experienced  an  ardent  desire  to 
be  worthy  of  so  noble  an  affection,  and  to  resemble,  at 
least  in  some  slight  degree,  the  ideal  picture  which  Elise 


96  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

had  formed  of  him — to  be  something  of  the  hero,  the 
knight,  the  noble  being  whom  Elise  worshipped  in  him. 

At  the  same  time  it  was  so  surprising  and  strange  to 
meet  a  girl,,  who,  all  submission  and  devoted  love,  yet  re- 
mained firm  and  immovable  in  her  purity  and  chastity, 
so  bright  and  proud  that  even  he  felt  respect  for  this  in- 
nocence which  surrounded  the  beloved  one  like  a  halo, 
and  his  lips  refused  to  utter  words  at  which  her  pure  soul 
might  tremble. 

With  his  fiery  and  mercurial  temperament,  he  had, 
with  a  kind  of  passionate  curiosity,  adopted  the  role  of 
a  Platonic  lover,  and  the  libertine  in  his  character  had 
been  subdued  by  the  love  of  the  eccentric.  He  had  con- 
verted this  love  into  a  kind  of  adoration.  He  placed 
Elise  upon  the  altar,  and  worshipped  her  as  a  saint  to 
whom  he  had  turned  from  the  turmoil  and  wild  lust 
of  life,  and  in  the  contemplation  and  worship  of  whom 
he  could  obtain  forgiveness  of  all  his  sins  and  errors. 
It  affected  him  to  think  that  Elise  was  praying  for  him 
while  he,  perhaps,  forgot  her  in  the  whirlpool  of  pleas- 
ure; that  she  believed  in  him  so  devotedly  and  truly, 
that  she  looked  up  to  him  so  lovingly  and  humbly — to 
him  who  was  so  far  her  inferior.  And  in  the  midst  of 
his  wild  life  of  pleasure  he  felt  the  need  of  some  saint 
to  intercede  for  forgiveness  for  him.  All  these  new 
and  unaccustomed  feelings  only  enchained  him  the 
more  closely,  and  made  him  consider  the  possession  of 
her  as  the  most  desirable  and  only  worthy  object  of  his 
life. 

She  must  be  his;  he  was  determined  to  wear  this 
brilliant  diamond,  the  only  one  he  had  ever  found 
genuine  and  without  flaw,  as  his  most  costly  possession; 
to  become,  in  spite  of  all  difficulties  and  impossibilities, 
unmindful  of  his  betrothed  bride  and  his  solemn  vows, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  97 

the  husband  of  this  beautiful  German  maiden,  \vliu  had 
given  herself  to  him  heart  and  soul. 

In  proportion  to  the  difficulties  that  opposed  such  a 
union,  increased  his  fierce  determination  to  overcome 
them.  He  was  betrothed,  and  the  Empress  Elizabeth 
herself  had  blessed  the  betrothal.  He  could  not,  there- 
fore, retract  his  vows  without  exciting  the  anger  of  hi.s 
mistress,  and  history  had  more  than  one  example  to 
show  how  violent  and  annihilating  this  anger  could  be. 
In  like  wise,  Elise  dared  not  hope  ever  to  obtain  the  con- 
sent of  her  father  to  her  union  with  a  man  who  was  the 
enemy  of  her  country.  She  was  obliged  to  conceal  this 
love  with  anxious  care  from  his  eyes,  if  she  did  not  wish 
to  expose  herself  to  the  danger  of  being  separated  from 
her  lover  forever.  She  knew  that  her  father,  in  every 
thing  else  uniformly  kind  and  yielding  toward  her,  was 
on  this  one  subject  implacable,  and  that  no  tears,  no 
pleading,  were  capable  of  moving  the  firm  and  energetic 
will  of  the  ardent  patriot. 

Both  were  obliged,  therefore,  to  preserve  their  love  a 
secret,  and  in  this  concealment  lay  for  Feodor  a  new 
charm  which  bound  him  to  her,  while  it  estranged  Elise's 
heart  still  more  from  her  father,  and  chained  it  in  un- 
bounded devotion  to  her  lover. 

In  the  mean  while  the  time  arrived  for  Feodor  to 
leave  Berlin  with  General  Sievers.  He  swore  eternal 
love  and  fidelity  to  Elise,  and  she  vowed  to  him  cheer- 
fully never  to  become  the  wife  of  another,  but  in  pa- 
tience and  trust  to  await  his  return,  and  to  hope  for  the 
end  of  the  war  and  the  coming  of  peace,  which  would 
solve  all  difficulties,  and  remove  the  opposition  of  her 
father. 

That  besides  her  father  there  could  be  any  obstacle, 
she  did  not  suspect;  Feodor  had  so  often  sworn  that  she 


98  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

was  his  first  and  only  love,  and  she,  young  and  inexperi- 
enced as  she  was,  believed  him. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

A   FAITHFUL   FKIEND. 

ELISE'S  father  had  not  yet  returned.  She  was  still 
alone,  but  in  her  soul  there  was  neither  fear  nor  trem- 
bling, but  only  a  defiant  grief  at  this  apparent  indiffer- 
ence to  the  danger  which  had  threatened  her,  in  common 
with  the  rest  of  Berlin,  for  the  last  two  days. 

She  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  room,  not  that  she 
anticipated  any  danger,  but  because  she  wished  to  be 
alone,  because  she  wished  to  avoid  Bertram,  the  faithful 
friend,  who  had  watched  over  her  during  this  time 
with  the  most  attentive  devotion.  Truthfully  had 
he  remained  in  the  house,  deserted  by  her  father,  as  a 
careful  watchman;  had  never  left  its  door;  but,  armed 
with  dagger  and  pistol,  he  had  stationed  himself  as  a 
sentinel  in  the  antechamber,  ready  to  hasten  at  the 
slightest  call  of  Elise,  to  defend  her  with  his  life  against 
any  attack  or  any  danger,  and  Elise  felt  herself  bound  to 
him  in  gratitude,  and  yet  this  duty  of  gratitude  was  a 
burden  to  her.  It  was  distressing  and  painful  to  her 
to  see  Bertram's  quiet  and  mournful  countenance,  to 
read  in  his  dimmed  eyes  the  presence  of  a  grief  so  coura- 
geously subdued.  But  yet  she  had  endeavored  to  over- 
come this  feeling,  and  she  had  often  come  to  him  lately 
to  chat  with  him  about  past  times  and  to  reward  him 
with  her  society  for  his  protection  and  faithful  presence. 
And  yet  Bertram's  tender  conscience  was  well  aware  of 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.        99 

the  constraint  Elise  had  put  herself  under,  and  the 
harmless  and  cheerful  chat  was  to  him  all  the  more  pain- 
ful, as  it  reminded  him  of  past  times  and  blasted  hopes. 

He  had,  therefore,  with  a  melancholy  smile  of  resig- 
nation, requested  Elise  not  to  come  any  more  into  the 
hall,  as  it  would  be  better,  by  the  anticipated  occupation 
of  the  enemy,  to  remain  in  her  room,  in  the  upper  story 
of  the  house,  and  to  lock  the  door  in  order  to  secure  her 
from  any  possible  surprise. 

Elise  had  completely  understood  the  delicacy  and 
nobleness  of  this  request,  and  since  then  had  remained 
quiet  and  undisturbed  in  her  room. 

Thus  the  second  night  had  commenced.  She  passed 
it  like  the  one  preceding,  wandering  up  and  down,  not 
needing  sleep,  but  kept  awake  by  her  thoughts  and  cares. 
In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  was  interrupted  in  her 
anxious  reveries  by  Bertram,  who  came  to  her  door,  and 
in  a  low  and  timid  voice  requested  permission  to  enter. 

Elise  knew  very  well  that  she  could  trust  Bertram 
like  a  brother,  as  an  unselfish,  disinterested  friend. 
Therefore,  fearlessly  she  opened  the  door,  and  bade  him 
come  in.  Bertram  entered  timidly  and  confused,  almost 
overpowered  by  happiness,  for  this  room  into  which  he 
came  was  Elise's  bedroom,  the  sanctuary  of  maidenhood 
and  beauty,  and  he  felt  disposed  to  kneel  down  and  pray, 
so  evidently  did  this  room  seem  to  him  a  temple  of  in- 
nocence. 

It  appeared  to  him  as  if  his  unholy  foot  was  not 
worthy  to  tread  this  ground,  nor  to  approach  the  bed 
which,  with  its  white  curtains,  seemed  to  wave  before 
his  dazzled  eyes  like  a  white  swan. 

In  soft  and  gentle  words  he  brought  to  Elise  greeting 
from  her  father.  He  related  to  her  how  Gotzkowsky 
had  visited  his  house,  not  to  take  rest,  but  to  see  Elise,* 


100  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

how,  scarcely  arrived  there,  a  messenger  from  the  Coun- 
cil had  called  him  hack  to  the  town-hall.  There  he  had 
commissioned  Bertram  to  request  his  daughter  to  with- 
draw from  the  front  rooms  of  the  house,  and  to  retire 
into  those  next  to  the  garden,  where  she  would  be  safer 
and  have  less  to  fear  from  the  enemy  as  he  marched  in. 

"  At  last,  then,  my  father  has  consented  to  think  of 
me,"  said  Elise,  with  a  hitter  smile.  "  His  patriotism 
has  allowed  him  leisure  to  remember  his  only  daughter, 
who  would  have  remained  solitary  and  forsaken  in  the 
midst  of  servants  and  hirelings  if  my  noble  and  faithful 
brother  had  not  assumed  the  duties  of  my  father,  and 
watched  over  and  protected  me."  She  reached  out  both 
her  hands  to  Bertram  with  a  look  full  of  gratitude,  but 
he  scarcely  touched  them;  he  held  them  for  a  moment 
lightly  and  coldly  in  his,  and  then  let  them  go.  This 
slight  and  transient  touch  had  shot  through  him  like 
an  electric  shot,  and  reawakened  all  the  sorrows  of  his 
soul. 

"You  will  then  leave  this  room?"  asked  Bertram, 
approaching  the  door. 

"  I  will  go  into  the  hall  immediately  next  to  it." 

"  All  alone?  "  asked  Bertram;  and  then  fearing  that 
she  might  suspect  him  of  wishing  to  force  his  company 
upon  her,  he  added,  quickly,  "  You  ought  to  keep  one 
of  your  maids  near  you,  Elise." 

Smilingly  she  shook  her  head.  "  For  what  pur- 
pose ? "  asked  she.  "  Bertram  is  my  protector,  and  I 
am  quite  safe.  I  have  sent  my  maids  to  their  rooms. 
They  were  tired  from  long  watching  and  weeping;  let 
them  sleep.  Bertram  will  watch  for  all  of  us.  I  have 
no  fear,  and  I  would  not  even  leave  this  room,  if  it  were 
not  that  I  wished  to  comply  with  the  rarely  expressed 
and  somewhat  tardy  desire  of  my  father." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  101 

Saying  which,  she  took  the  silver  candelabras  from 
the  table  and  quietly  traversed  the  room  in  order  to 
proceed  to  the  adjoining  hall.  At  the  door  she  stopped 
and  turned  round.  The  full  light  of  the  candles  shone 
on  her  handsome,  expressive  face,  and  Bertram  gazed  on 
her  with  a  mixture  of  delight  and  anguish. 

"  Bertram,"  said  she  gently  and  timidly,  "  Bertram, 
my  brother,  let  me  thank  you  for  all  your  love  and  con- 
stancy. Would  that  I  could  reward  you  more  worthily! 
In  that  case  all  would  be  different,  and  we  would  not  all 
be  so  sad  and  despondent  as  we  now  are.  But  always  re- 
member, my  brother,  that  I  will  never  cease  to  love  you 
as  a  sister,  and  that  if  I  cannot  compel  my  heart  to  love 
you  otherwise,  yet  no  other  power,  no  other  feeling  can 
ever  lessen  or  destroy  my  sisterly  affection.  Kemember 
this,  Bertram,  and  be  not  angry  with  me."  She  nodded 
to  him  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  retreated  through  the 
door. 

Bertram  stood  rooted  to  the  floor  like  one  enchanted, 
and  gazed  at  the  door  through  which  this  vision  of  light 
had  departed.  He  then  raised  his  eyes  to  heaven,  and 
his  countenance  shone  with  excitement.  "  God  grant 
that  she  may  be  happy!  "  prayed  he,  softly.  "  May  she 
never  be  tormented  by  the  agonies  of  error  or  repent- 
ance; may  he  whom  she  loves  prove  worthy  of  her! " 

Overpowered  by  bitter  and  painful  thoughts,  his  head 
sank  upon  his  breast,  and  tears  coursed  down  his  cheeks. 
But  he  did  not  abandon  himself  long  to  his  sad  and  anx- 
ious thoughts,  nor  did  he  allow  sorrow  long  to  take  pos- 
session of  his  heart.  After  a  short  pause  he  raised  him- 
self and  shook  his  head,  as  if  to  roll  off  the  whole  burden 
of  care  and  grief  with  all  the  power  of  his  will. 

"  At  least  I  will  always  be  at  her  side,"  said  he,  his 
countenance  beaming  from  the  noble  decision.  "  I  will 


102  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

follow  her  like  a  faithful,  watchful  dog,  and  ward  off 
from  her  every  danger  and  every  misfortune  which 
conies  from  man  and  not  from  God.  She  has  called  me 
her  brother!  Well,  a  brother  has  both  rights  and  duties, 
and  I  will  perform  them!  " 


CHAPTEE   XV. 

AN   UNEXPECTED   MEETING. 

THE  hall  to  which  Elise  had  retired,  next  to  her  bed- 
room, was  on  the  garden  side  of  the  house,  and  its  glass 
doors  opened  on  a  porch  from  which  handsomely  orna- 
mented bronze  steps  led  winding  down  into  the  garden. 
Notwithstanding  the  advanced  season  of  the  year,  the 
night  was  mild,  and  the  moon  shone  brightly.  Elise 
opened  the  glass  doors  and  stepped  out  on  the  porch  to 
cool  her  burning  forehead  in  the  fresh  night  air;  and, 
leaning  on  the  balustrade,  she  looked  up  smiling  and 
dreamily  at  the  moon.  Sweet  and  precious  fancies  filled 
the  soul  of  the  young  maiden,  and  brought  the  color  to 
her  cheeks. 

She  thought  of  her  lover,  who  so  lately  had  appeared 
to  her  as  in  a  dream;  she  repeated  to  herself  each  one  of 
his  words.  With  a  sweet  but  trembling  emotion  she 
remembered  that  he  had  bidden  her  to  await  him;  that 
he  had  sworn  to  her  to  come,  even  if  his  way  should  be 
over  dead  bodies  and  through  rivers  of  blood. 

With  all  the  pride  of  a  loving  girl  she  recalled  his 
bold  and  passionate  words,  and  she  rejoiced  in  her  heart 
that  she  could  call  herself  the  bride  of  a  hero.  Even  if 
this  hero  was  the  enemy  of  her  country,  what  did  she 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  103 

care?  She  loved  him,  and  what  to  her  were  nationali- 
ties or  the  quarrels  of  princes?  She  was  his — his  in  love 
and  faith,  in  purity  and  innocence;  what  cared  she  for 
aught  else? 

Elise  started  suddenly  from  her  dreams.  She  had 
heard  a  noise  down  in  the  garden,  and  leaned  listening 
over  the  balustrade.  What  was  the  meaning  of  this 
noise?  Was  it  perhaps  some  thief,  who,  under  cover  of 
the  general  confusion,  had  stolen  into  the  garden? 
Elise  remained  motionless,  and  listened.  She  had  not 
deceived  herself,  for  she  distinctly  heard  footsteps.  A 
feeling  of  fear  took  possession  of  her,  and  yet  she  did  not 
dare  to  move  from  the  spot,  nor  to  cry  for  help.  Might 
it  not  be  her  lover,  for  whom  she  had  promised  to  wait? 

With  strained  attention  she  gazed  down  into  the 
garden;  her  eye  seemed  to  penetrate  the  darkness  with 
its  sharp,  searching  look.  But  she  could  distinguish 
nothing;  not  an  object  moved  through  these  silent  paths, 
where  the  yellow  sand  was  sufficiently  lighted  up  by  the 
moon  to  betray  any  one  sufficiently  bold  to  tread  them. 
Every  thing  was  again  quiet;  but.  Elise  shuddered  at 
these  long,  black  shadows  cast  on  both  sides  of  the  alleys; 
she  was  afraid  to  remain  any  longer  on  the  porch.  She 
retired  into  the  hall,  the  door  to  which  she  had  left  open 
on  purpose  to  perceive  any  noise  coming  from  that 
quarter. 

Now  again  she  became  aware  of  steps  approaching 
nearer  and  nearer.  She  wished  to  rise,  but  her  feet  re- 
fused their  office.  She  sank  back  powerless  into  her 
chair  and  closed  her  eyes.  She  could  not  determine 
whether  it  was  fear  or  happy  expectation  which  per- 
vaded her  whole  being. 

And  now  the  footsteps  ascended  into  the  porch,  and 
came  quite  near  to  the  window.  Would  a  thief  dare 


104  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

to  approach  these  lighted  windows?  She  raised  her 
eyes.  He  stood  before  her!— lie,  her  beloved,  the  friend 
of  her  heart,  her  thoughts,  her  hopes!  Feodor  von 
Brenda  stood  in  the  doorway  of  the  hall,  and  uttered 
softly  her  name.  She  could  not  rise,  her  feet  trembled 
so;  and  in  her  heart  she  experienced  an  uneasy  sensation 
of  fear  and  terror.  And  yet  she  stretched  her  arms  out 
to  him,  and  welcomed  him  with  her  looks  and  her  smile. 

And  now  she  lay  in  his  arms,  now  he  pressed  her 
firmly  to  his  heart,  and  whispered  tender,  flattering 
words  in  her  ear. 

She  pushed  him  gently  back,  and  gazed  at  him  with 
a  smile  of  delight.  But  suddenly  her  look  clouded,  and 
she  sighed  deeply.  Feodor's  brilliant  Russian  uniform 
pained  her,  and  reminded  her  of  the  danger  he  might 
be  incurring.  He  read  her  fear  and  anxiety  in  her 
countenance. 

"  Do  not  be  afraid,  my  sweet  one,"  whispered  he 
gently,  drawing  her  into  his  arms.  "  No  danger  threat- 
ens us.  My  people  are  now  masters  of  the  town.  Ber- 
lin has  surrendered  to  the  Russians.  The  enemy  is  now 
conqueror  and  master,  and  no  one  would  dare  to  touch 
this  uniform.  Even  your  father  must  now  learn  to 
yield,  and  to  forget  his  hatred." 

"  He  will  never  do  it,"  sighed  Elise  sadly.  "  You 
do  not  know  him,  Feodor.  His  will  never  bends,  and 
the  most  ardent  prayers  would  not  induce  him  to  grant 
that  to  his  heart  which  his  judgment  does  not  approve 
of.  He  is  not  accustomed  to  yield.  His  riches  make 
him  almost  despotic.  Every  one  yields  to  him." 

"  He  is  the  king  of  merchants,"  said  Feodor,  as  he 
passed  his  fingers  playfully  through  the  dark  tresses  of 
the  young  girl,  whose  head  rested  on  his  shoulder.  "  His 
money  makes  him  as  powerful  as  a  prince." 


THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  105 

"  That  is  exactly  my  misfortune,"  sighed  Elise. 

The  colonel  laughed,  and  pressed  a  kiss  upon  her 
forehead.  "  Dreamer/'  said  he,  u  do  you  call  yourself 
miserable  because  you  are  the  daughter  of  a  niillioii- 
uaire?  " 

"  Millions  alone  do  not  make  one  happy,"  said  she 
sadly.  "  The.  heart  grows  cold  over  the  dead  money, 
and  my  father's  heart  is  cold  toward  his  daughter.  He 
has  so  many  thousand  other  things  to  do  and  think  of 
besides  his  daughter!  The  whole  world  has  claims  upon 
him;  every  one  requires  his  advice,  submits  to  and  obeys 
him.  From  all  parts  of  the  world  come  letters  to  be 
answered,  and,  when  at  last,  late  in  the  evening,  he  re- 
members he  is  something  besides  the  king  on  'Change, 
the  man  of  speculation,  he  is  so  tired  and  exhausted,  that 
he  has  only  a  few  dull  words  for  his  child,  who  lives  soli- 
tary in  the  midst  of  all  this  wealth,  and  curses  the  mil- 
lions which  make  her  poor." 

She  had  spoken  with  increasing  excitement  and  bit- 
terness. Even  her  love  had  for  a  moment  been  eclipsed 
by  the  feeling  of  an  injured  daughter,  whose  grief  she 
now  for  the  first  time  disclosed  to  her  lover. 

As  she  finished  speaking,  she  laid  her  arm  on  Feo- 
dor's  shoulder,  and  clung  still  more  closely  to  him,  as  if 
to  find  in  his  heart  protection  and  shelter  against  all 
pain  and  every  grief.  Like  a  poor,  broken  flower  she 
laid  herself  on  his  breast,  and  Feodor  gazed  at  her  with 
pride  and  pity.  At  this  moment  he  wished  to  try  her 
heart,  and  discover  whether  he  alone  was  master  of  it. 
For  that  purpose  had  he  come;  for  this  had  he  risked 
this  meeting.  In  this  very  hour  should  she  follow  him 
and  yield  herself  to  him  in  love  and  submission.  His 
long  separation  from  her,  his  wild  soldier's  life  had 
crushed  out  the  last  blossoms  of  tender  and  chaste  affec- 


1Q6  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

tion  in  his  heart,  and  he  ridiculed  himself  for  his  pure, 
adoring,  timid  love.  Distrust  had  resumed  power  over 
him,  and  doubt,  like  a  mildew,  had  spread  itself  over  his 
last  ideal.  Elise  was  to  him  only  a  woman  like  the  rest. 
She  was  his  property,  and  as  such  he  wished  to  do  with 
her  as  he  chose. 

But  yet  there  was  something  in  her  pure,  loving 
being  which  mastered  him  against  his  will,  and,  as  it 
were,  changed  his  determination.  In  her  presence,  look- 
ing into  her  clear  pure  eye,  he  forgot  his  dark  designs 
and  his  dreary  doubts,  and  Elise  became  again  the  angel 
of  innocence  and  purity,  the  saint  to  whom  he  prayed, 
and  whose  tender  looks  shed  forgiveness  on  him. 

This  young  girl,  resting  so  calmly  and  confidingly 
on  his  breast,  and  looking  at  him  so  innocently  and  pure- 
ly, moved  him,  and  made  him  blush  for  himself  and 
his  wild,  bold  desires.  Silent  and  reflecting  he  sat  at 
her  side,  but  she  could  read  in  his  looks,  in  his  smile, 
that  he  loved  her.  What  further  need  had  she  of 
words? 

She  raised  her  head  from  his  breast,  and  looked  at 
him  for  a  long  time,  and  her  countenance  assumed  a 
bright,  happy  expression. 

"  Oh,"  said  she,  "  do  I  call  myself  poor  when  I  have 
you?  I  am  no  longer  poor  since  I  have  known  you,  but 
I  have  been  so;  and  this,  my  friend,  must  be  the  excuse 
for  my  love.  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  the  cold  glitter  of 
gold  as  in  an  enchanted  castle,  and  all  around  me  was 
lifeless,  stiffened  into  torpidity  by  enchantment,  and  I 
knew  no  talisman  to  break  the  charm.  You  came,  and 
brought  with  you  love.  The  talisman  was  found;  a 
warm  life  awoke  in  me,  and  all  the  splendor  of  gold 
crumbled  into  dust.  I  was  rich  then,  for  I  loved;  now 
I  am  rich,  for  you  love  me!  " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  107 

"  Yes,  I  love  you/'  cried  he;  "  let  your  father  keep 
his  treasures.  You,  and  only  you,  do  I  desire." 

She  sprang  up  startled  from  his  arms.  In  the  over- 
powering happiness  of  the  hour  she  had  entirely  forgot- 
ten the  danger  which  threatened  her  lover.  She  sud- 
denly remembered,  and  her  cheek  paled. 

"  My  father!  "  cried  she,  "  if  he  should  come  at  this 
moment!  His  look  alone  would  be  enough  to  kill  me." 
And  anxiously  and  tremblingly  she  clung  to  Feodor. 

"  Fear  not,  dear  one,"  he  whispered,  "  he  is  not  com- 
ing. God  protects  and  watches  over  those  who  love  each 
other.  Do  not  think  of  danger.  Banish  all  care,  all  fear. 
This  hour  belongs  to  us,  and  as  I  now  fold  you  in  my 
arms  with  delight,  so  let  it  be  always  and  forever.  For 
you  know,  precious  child,  that  you  are  mine,  that  you  can 
never  belong  to  another;  that  you  have  pledged  yourself, 
and  at  some  future  time  must  follow  me  as  your  husband." 

"  I  know  it,  I  know  it,"  she  murmured;  and,  in  bliss- 
ful self-forgetfulness,  she  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoul- 
der, and  listened  with  beating  heart  to  the  burning,  pas- 
sionate words  which  he  poured  into  her  ear. 

Of  a  sudden,  with  the  rapidity  of  lightning,  she 
sprang  up,  as  if  an  electric  shock  had  pervaded  her  body, 
and  listened  eagerly. 

As  Feodor  was  about  to  speak,  to  inquire  the  cause 
of  her  sudden  terror,  she  quickly  pressed  her  hand  to  his 
mouth.  "  Silence,"  whispered  she  softly.  "  I  heard  it 
distinctly.  My  father  is  coming  hither  through  the 
garden! " 

They  both  listened  in  silence.  In  the  quiet  of  the 
night  Gotzkowsky's  voice  was  now  heard.  He  ordered 
his  servants  to  shut  the  garden  gates  carefully,  and 
watch  them  well,  as  the  Russians  entering  the  town 
would  pass  by  this  wall. 


108  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  Feodor;  "  it  is  your  father. 
Truly  this  is  an  unlucky  accident." 

"  He  will  kill  me  if  he  finds  you  here/'  murmured 
Elise,  clinging,  half  fainting,  to  her  lover's  arm. 

"  I  will  protect  you  with  my  life/'  said  he,  pressing 
her  more  firmly  to  him. 

"No,  no!"  cried  she  breathlessly;  "he  must  not 
find  you  here.  No  one  must  see  you.  Oh,  Feodor,  lis- 
ten to  me.  He  is  not  alone;  Bertram  and  his  servants 
are  with  him.  Oh,  my  God,  they  will  kill  you!  Save 
yourself;  leave  me,  Feodor,  and  conceal  yourself !"  And 
drawing  him  with  irresistible  strength  to  the  door,  she 
whispered,  "  In  there,  in  my  bedroom  conceal  yourself." 

"  Never,"  said  he  firmly  and  decidedly.  "  Never 
will  I  hide  myself,  or  sneak  away  like  a  coward! " 

"  You  must  do  it,"  entreated  she;  and  as  she  saw  that 
he  hesitated  and  drew  back  unwillingly,  she  continued: 
"  Not  for  your  sake — for  the  sake  of  my  honor,  Feodor. 
Remember  it  is  night,  and  I  am  alone  with  you." 

"  Yes,  you  are  right,"  said  Feodor  sadly.  "  Hide  me; 
no  spot  must  tarnish  your  honor." 

With  convulsive  haste,  Elise  drew  him  to  the  door  of 
her  chamber.  Gotzkowsky's  voice  was  heard  just  out- 
side the  window. 

"  Quick!  hasten,  they  are  coming! "  said  she,  pull- 
ing the  door  open,  and  pushing  him  hurriedly  on. 

"  He  is  saved,"  cried  her  heart  joyfully,  as  she  closed 
the  door  after  him,  and,  sinking  down,  half  fainting  in 
a  chair,  her  lips  murmured,  "  Have  mercy,  gracious  God; 
have  mercy  on  him  and  me! " 

At  this  moment  her  father,  accompanied  by  Bertram 
and  the  factory  workman,  Balthazar,  entered  the  room 
through  the  door  of  the  balcony. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 
CHAPTEK    XVI. 

THE    FUGITIVE. 

GOTZKOWSKY  at  length  returned  to  his  home.  Sad 
and  sorrowful  was  his  soul,  and  his  brow,  at  other  times 
so  smooth  and  clear,  was  now  dark  and  clouded,  lie 
mourned  for  his  country,  for  the  fruitless  battles,  the 
blood  shed  in  vain,  and,  in  the  bitter  grief  of  his  heart, 
he  asked  himself  what  crime  he  had  committed,  that  to 
him  should  be  assigned  the  painful  duty  of  deciding  to 
which  of  the  enemies  they  should  surrender.  And  yet 
the  decision  was  imperative,  and  Berlin  had  to  be  sur- 
rendered to  the  Russians. 

In  gloomy  sadness,  hardly  casting  a  passing  glance 
at  his  daughter,  whose  anxiety  and  death-like  paleness 
he  did  not  even  perceive,  Gotzkowsky  entered  the  hall, 
Bertram  carefully  bolting  the  doors  behind  him,  and 
then  in  an  undertone  gave  Balthazar  and  the  servants 
directions  for  the  protection  of  the  house. 

"What  a  dreadful  night!"  said  Gotzkowsky,  sink- 
ing down  on  a  sofa  exhausted;  "  my  heart  aches  as  much 
as  my  limbs." 

For  a  moment  he  closed  his  eyes,  and  lay  silent  and 
motionless.  Elise  was  still  leaning  trembling  and  breath- 
less on  the  chair  near  the  door.  Gotzkowsky  raised  his 
head,  and  his  eyes  sought  his  daughter.  As  he  per- 
ceived her,  a  gentle  and  pleased  expression  passed  over 
his  face,  and  his  brow  grew  clearer.  He  hastened  to  her 
and  raised  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Bless  you,  Elise,  my  child!  for  two  days  have  I  been 
nothing  but  citizen  and  soldier;  now  at  last  I  am  per- 
mitted to  remember  that  I  am  a  father.  I  had  almost 
8 


HO  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

forgotten  it  during  these  wild  sad  days.  Good-evening, 
my  darling  child!  " 

Elise  kissed  his  hand  respectfully,  and  muttered  a 
low  welcome. 

Gotzkowsky  said  in  a  gentle  tone,  "  This  is  a  comfort 
which  makes  me  forget  all  my  sufferings.  Come,  my 
children,  let  us  for  one  bright  hour  put  aside  all  care  and 
trouble,  and  be  happy  and  cheerful  together.  Let  us 
have  breakfast.  This  poor,  weak  body  needs  refresh- 
ment, for  it  reminds  me  that,  for  two  days,  I  have  been 
living  on  prison  fare,  bread  and  water.  Come,  then,  let 
us  breakfast.  Bertram,  sit  by  my  side,  and  our  sweet 
little  housekeeper  will  help  us  to  coffee." 

Elise  rose  with  difficulty  and  gave  the  necessary 
orders  to  the  servants;  and  while  the  latter  were  hurry- 
ing to  and  fro,  serving  up  breakfast,  Gotzkowsky  re- 
clined on  the  sofa,  half  asleep  from  exhaustion;  and 
Bertram  and  Elise  sat  opposite  to  each  other  in  silence. 
Suddenly  there  were  heard  in  the  distance  wild  yells, 
and  loud  noises  and  cries.  Then  hasty  steps  flew  up  the 
staircase;  the  hall  door  was  pulled  open,  and  a  soldier 
rushed  in.  With  breathless  haste  he  bolted  the  door 
behind  him,  threw  off  the  white  cloak  which  concealed 
his  figure,  and  the  broad-brimmed  hat  which  covered 
his  head,  and  sank  with  a  loud  sigh  into  a  chair.  Gotz- 
kowsky hurried  up  to  him  and  looked  at  him  attentively. 
Elise,  with  an  instinctive  feeling  of  the  danger  which 
threatened  Feodor,  turned  to  the  door  behind  which  he 
was  hidden. 

"The  artilleryman,  Fritz!"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  with 
visible  astonishment. 

"  Yes,  it  is  me,"  groaned  the  soldier.  "  Save  me, 
Gotzkowsky;  do  not  deliver  me  up  to  these  barbarians!  " 

Gotzkowsky  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder  with  a 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

friendly  smile.  "  I  would  not  betray  the  enemy  himself, 
if  he  sought  refuge  in  my  house;  and  you  ask  me  not 
to  betray  the  most  valiant  and  renowned  defender  of 
Berlin.  Bertram,  this  man  here,  this  simple  cannoneer, 
has  performed  miracles  of  valor,  and  earned  for  himself 
an  enviable  name  in  these  last  unfortunate  days.  It  was 
he  who  had  charge  of  the  only  two  cannon  Berlin  pos- 
sessed, and  who,  never  tiring,  without  rest  or  relaxation, 
sent  death  into  the  ranks  of  the  enemy.  Be  assured, 
my  son,  you  have  fought  these  two  days  like  a  hero,  and 
it  cannot  be  God's  wish  that,  as  a  reward  for  your 
bravery,  you  should  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy." 

"  They  pursue  me  everywhere,"  said  the  artillery- 
man. "  Hunted  by  De  Lacy's  chasseurs  like  a  wild 
beast,  I  fled  down  the  street  hither.  You  told  me  yester- 
day that  if  ever  I  wanted  a  friend  in  need,  you  would  be 
one  to  me.  Therefore  have  I  come  to  you.  The  Aus- 
trians  have  sworn  vengeance  on  the  cannoneer,  whose 
balls  swept  their  ranks  so  murderously,  and  have  set  a 
large  price  on  my  head/' 

"  Ah!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  laughing,  "  the  Austrians 
advertise  rewards  before  they  have  got  the  money  to  pay 
them.  Let  them  set  a  thousand  ducats  on  your  head, 
my  son.  They  will  have  to  do  without  the  ducats,  and 
your  head  too,  for  Berlin  will  give  them  neither.  If  we 
must  pay  the  money,  the  Eussian  shall  have  it;  and  as 
for  your  head,  well,  I  will  pay  for  that  with  my  life. 
You  have  fought  like  a  lion,  and  like  lions  we  will  de- 
fend you." 

"  What  have  I  gained  by  righting?  "  said  Fritz,  with 
a  mournful  shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  The  enemy  have 
succeeded  in  getting  into  the  town,  and  their  rage  is 
fearful.  They  have  sworn  to  kill  me.  But  you  will  not 
give  me  up!  and  should  they  come  here  and  find  me, 


j.12  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

then  have  pity  on  me  and  kill  me,  but  do  not  give  me  up 
to  the  enemy!  " 

"  To  kill  you,  they  must  kill  both  of  us  first!  "  cried 
Bertram,,  taking  the  brave  cannoneer  by  the  hand.  "  We 
will  hide  him  in  your  house;  won't  we,  Father  Uotz- 
kowsky?  " 

"  Yes,  and  so  safely  that  no  one  will  be  able  to  find 
him!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  cheerfully,  raising  the  soldier 
up  by  the  hand.  "  Follow  me,  my  son.  In  my  daugh- 
ter's chamber  is  a  safe  hiding-place.  The  mirror  on  the 
wall  covers  a  secret  door,  behind  which  is  a  space  just 
large  enough  to  conceal  a  person.  Come." 

He  led  the  artilleryman  toward  the  door  of  Elise's 
room.  But  before  this  door  Elise  had  stationed  herself,  her 
cheeks  burning  and  her  eyes  flashing.  The  danger  of  her 
lover  lent  her  courage  and  determination,  and  enabled 
her  to  meet  the  anger  of  her  father  unflinchingly. 

"  Not  in  there,  father!  "  said  she,  in  a  tone  almost 
commanding;  "  not  into  my  room!  " 

Gotzkowsky  stepped  back  in  astonishment,  and  gazed 
at  his  daughter.  "  How,"  asked  he,  "  do  you  forbid  me 
the  entrance  ?  " 

"  Behind  the  picture  of  the  Virgin  in  the  large  hall 
is  a  similar  hiding-place/'  said  Elise,  hurriedly;  "  carry 
him  thither." 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  only 
gazed  firmly  and  inquiringly  into  Elise's  countenance. 
Dark  and  dismal  misgivings,  which  he  had  often  with 
much  difficulty  suppressed,  now  arose  again,  and  filled 
his  soul  with  angry,  desperate  thoughts.  Like  Virginius 
of  old,  he  would  have  preferred  to  kill  his  daughter  to 
delivering  her  into  the  hands  of  the  enemy. 

"  And  why  should  he  go  there,  and  not  remain 
here?  "  asked  he  at  last  with  an  effort. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  H3 

"Remember,    father,"    stammered    she.     blushing, 

i.    T » 

She  stopped  as  she  met  the  look  of  her  father,  which 
rested  on  her  with  penetrating  power — as  she  read  the 
rising  anger  of  his  soul  in  the  tense  swollen  veins  of  his 
brow,  and  his  pale,  trembling  lips. 

Bertram  had  witnessed  this  short  but  impressive 
scene  with  increasing  terror.  Elise's  anxiety,  her  pale- 
ness and  trembling,  the  watch  which  she  kept  over  that 
door,  had  not  escaped  him,  even  on  his  entrance,  and 
filled  him  with  painful  uneasiness.  But  as  he  now  rec- 
ognized in  Gotzkowsky's  features  the  signs  of  an  anger 
which  was  the  more  violent  for  the  very  reason  that  he 
so  seldom  gave  way  to  it,  he  felt  the  necessity  of  coming 
to  the  assistance  of  his  distressed  sister.  lie  approached 
her  father,  and  laid  his  hand  lightly  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Elise  is  right,"  said  he,  entreatingly.  "  Eespect  her 
maiden  hesitation." 

Gotzkowsky  turned  round  upon  him  with  an  im- 
patient toss  of  the  head,  and  stared  him  full  in  the  face. 
He  then  broke  into  a  fit  of  wild,  derisive  laughter. 

"  Yes/'  said  he,  "  we  will  respect  her  maiden  hesita- 
tion. You  have  spoken  wisely,  Bertram.  Listen:  you 
know  the  partition  behind  the  picture  of  the  Madonna 
in  the  picture-gallery.  Carry  our  brave  friend  thither, 
and  take  heed  that  the  spring  is  carefully  closed." 

Bertram  looked  at  him  sadly  and  anxiously.  He  had 
never  before  seen  this  man,  usually  so  calm,  so  passion- 
ately excited, 

"  You  will  not  go  with  us,  father?  "  asked  he. 

"  No,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  harshly;  "  I  remain  here  to 
await  the  enemy." 

He  cast  on  Elise,  still  leaning  against  the  door,  a 
threatening  look,  which  made  her  heart  tremble. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

Bertram  sighed,  and  had  not  the  courage  to  go  and 
forsake  Elise  in  this  anxious  and  critical  moment. 

"  Hasten,  friend,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  sternly.  "  The 
life  of  a  brave  man  is  at  stake.  Hasten!  " 

The  young  man  dared  not  gainsay  him,  but  he  ap- 
proached Gotzkowsky,  and  whispered  softly:  "  Be  le- 
nient, father.  See  how  she  trembles!  Poor  sister!  " 

And  with  a  painful  glance  at  Elise,  he  took  the  hand 
of  the  artilleryman,  and  led  him  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTEE   XVII. 

THE   EAVESDEOPPER. 

ELISE  was  now  alone  with  her  father.  She  had  sunk 
down  near  the  fatal  door,  and  her  colorless  lips  mur- 
mured faint  prayers. 

Gotzkowsky  stood  there,  still  relentless;  but  his  agi- 
tated countenance,  his  lowering  brow,  his  flashing  eyes, 
betrayed  the  deep  and  passionate  emotion  of  his  soul. 
Struck  and  wounded  fatally  in  his  most  sacred  feelings, 
he  felt  no  pity,  no  compassion  for  this  poor  trembling 
girl,  who  followed  his  every  motion  with  a  timid,  anx- 
ious eye.  His  whole  being  was  filled  with  burning  rage 
against  his  daughter,  who,  his  misgiving  heart  told  him, 
had  trampled  his  honor  in  the  dust. 

A  long  and  dreadful  pause  occurred.  Nothing  was 
heard  but  Gotzkowsky's  loud,  heavy  breathing,  and 
Elise's  low-muttered  prayers.  Suddenly  Gotzkowsky 
drew  himself  up,  and  threw  his  head  proudly  back.  He 
then  walked  to  the  door  leading  into  the  balcony,  and  to 
the  opposite  one,  and  ascertained  that  they  were  both 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  H5 

closed.  No  one  could  intrude,  no  one  interrupt  this 
fearful  dialogue. 

Elise  was  terribly  conscious  of  this,  and  could  only 
whisper,  "  Pity,  pity,  merciful  God!  I  shall  die  with 
terror! " 

Gotzkowsky  approached  her,  and,  seizing  her  hand, 
raised  her  rapidly  from  the  floor.  "  We  are  alone  now," 
said  he  with  a  hoarse,  harsh  voice.  "  Answer  me,  now. 
Who  is  concealed  there  in  your  room  ?  " 

"  No  one,  my  father." 

"  No  one!  "  repeated  he,  sternly.  "  Why,  then,  do 
you  tremble?  " 

"  1  tremble  because  you  look  at  me  so  angrily,"  said 
she,  terrified. 

Her  father  cast  her  hand  passionately  from  him. 
"  Liar!  "  cried  he.  "  Do  you  wish  me  to  kill  him?  " 

He  took  his  sword  from  the  table,  and  approached 
the  door. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  my  father?  "  cried  she, 
throwing  herself  in  his  way. 

"  I  am  going  to  kill  the  thief  who  stole  my  daughter's 
honor,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  his  eyes  flashing  with  rage. 

"Father,  father,  by  the  God  in  heaven  I  am  inno- 
cent! "  cried  she,  convulsively,  striving  to  hold  him 
back. 

"  Then  let  me  have  the  proof  of  this  innocence,"  said 
he,  pushing  her  back. 

But  she  sprang  forward  with  the  agility  of  a  gazelle, 
rushed  again  to  the  door,  and  clung  with  both  hands  to 
the  lock. 

"No,  no,  father,  I  remain  here.  You  shall  not  in- 
sult yourself  and  me  so  much  as  to  believe  what  is  dis- 
honorable and  unworthy  of  me,  and  to  require  a  proof 
of  my  innocence." 


116  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

This  bold  opposition  of  Elise  only  excited  Gotzkow- 
sky's  anger  the  more,  and  was  to  him  a  fresh  proof  of  her 
guilt.  His  rage  overpowered  him;  with  raised  arm  and 
flashing  eye  he  strode  up  to  Elise,  and  cried  out:  "  Away 
from  the  door,  or  by  Heaven  I  will  forget  that  I  am 
your  father!  " 

"  Oh,"  cried  she  breathlessly,  "  you  have  often  for- 
gotten that,  but  think  now;  remember  that  I  am  tin 
daughter  of  the  wife  whom  you  loved!  Trust  me,  father. 
By  the  memory  of  my  mother,  I  swear  to  you  that  my 
honor  is  pure  from  any  spot;  and,  however  much  ap- 
pearances may  be  against  me,  I  am  nevertheless  inno- 
cent. I  have  never  done  any  thing  of  which  my  father 
would  have  to  be  ashamed.  Believe  me,  father;  give 
me  your  hand  and  say  to  me — '  I  believe  your  innocence; 
I  trust  you  even  without  proof! ' : 

She  sank  down  on  her  knees,  raising  her  arms  im- 
ploringly to  him,  while  burning  tears  streamed  down  her 
cheeks.  Gotzkowsky  gazed  at  her  long  and  silently,  and 
his  child's  tears  touched  the  father's  heart. 

"  Perhaps  I  do  her  injustice,"  said  he  to  himself, 
looking  thoughtfully  into  her  weeping  face.  "  She  may 
be  really  innocent.  Let  us  try,"  said  he,  after  a  pause, 
pressing  his  hands  to  his  burning  temples.  As  he  let 
them  drop,  his  countenance  was  again  calm  and  clear, 
and  there  was  no  longer  visible  any  trace  of  his  former 
anger.  "  I  will  believe  you,"  said  he.  "  Here,  Elise,  is 
my  hand." 

Elise  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  sprang  up  from  her  knees, 
rushed  toward  her  father,  and  pressed  her  burning  lips 
on  his  extended  hand.  "My  father,  I  thank  you.  I 
will  ever  be  grateful  to  you,"  cried  she,  fondly. 

Gotzkowsky  held  her  hand  firmly  in  his  own,  and 
while  speaking  to  her  approached,  apparently  by  acci- 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 


dent,  the  door  ao  bravely  defended  by  Elise.  "  You  are 
right,  my  child;  I  was  a  fool  to  doubt  you,  but  I  am 
jealous  of  my  honor,  the  most  precious  property  of  an 
honest  man.  Much  can  be  bought  with  gold,  but  not 
honor.  True  honor  is  bright  and  clear  as  a  mirror,  and 
the  slightest  breath  dims  it.  Oh,  how  would  this  envi- 
ous, grudging,  malignant  world  rejoice  if  it  could  only 
find  a  spo  ';  on  my  honor!  But  woe  to  him  who  dims  it, 
even  if  it  were  my  own  child!  " 

Elise  turned  pale  and  cast  down  her  eyes.  Gotzkow- 
sky  perceived  it.  He  still  held  her  hand  in  his,  and  ap- 
proached the  door  with  her,  but  he  compelled  his  voice 
to  be  gentle  and  mild. 

"  I  repeat,"  said  he,  "  I  wronged  you,  but  it  was  a 
terrible  suspicion  which  tortured  me,  and  I  will  confess 
it  to  you,  my  child.  The  Kussian  flag  of  truce  which 
came  into  town  to  negotiate  with  the  authorities  was  ac- 
companied by  ten  soldiers  and  two  officers.  While  the 
commissioner  was  transacting  business  in  the  Council- 
chamber  above,  they  remained  below  in  the  lower  story 
of  the  building.  I  accompanied  the  commissioner,  as  he 
left  the  Council,  down-stairs,  and  we  found  his  military 
escort  in  a  state  of  anxiety  and  excitement,  for  one  of 
the  officers  had  left  them  two  hours  before,  and  had  not 
yet  returned,  and  they  had  called  and  hunted  for  him 
everywhere.  The  Russians  were  furious,  and  cried  out 
that  we  had  murdered  one  of  their1  officers.  I  succeeded 
in  quieting  them,  but  my  own  heart  I  could  not  quiet;  it 
felt  convulsively  cramped  when  I  heard  the  name  of 
this  missing  officer.  Need  I  name  him  ?  " 

Elise  did  not  answer.  She  looked  at  her  father,  with 
tears  in  her  eyes,  and  shook  her  head  languidly. 

Gotzkowsky  continued:  "  It  is  the  name  of  a  man  to 
whom  I  formerly  showed  much  friendship;  toward  whom 


118  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

I  exercised  hospitality,  and  whom  I  made  free  of  my 
house,  and  who  now  shows  his  gratitude  by  stealing  the 
heart  of  my  daughter,  like  a  pitiful  thief.  Oh,  do  not 
attempt  to  deny  this.  I  know  it,  Elise;  and  if  I  have 
hitherto  avoided  speaking  to  you  about  this  matter,  it 
was  because  I  had  confidence  in  your  sound  sense,  and  in 
the  purity  of  heart  of  a  German  girl  to  sustain  you  in  re- 
sisting a  feeling  which  would  lead  you  astray  from  'Jie 
path  of  duty  and  honor.  I  do  not  say  that  you  loved 
him,  but  that  he  wished  to  seduce  you  into  loving  him 
clandestinely,  behind  your  father's  back.  That  is  his 
gratitude  for  my  hospitality." 

Speaking  thus,  Gotzkowsky  pressed  his  daughter's 
hand  more  firmly  in  his  own,  and  continued  approaching 
more  closely  to  the  door.  "  Only  think,"  continued  he, 
"  the  mad  thought  crossed  my  mind — *  How  if  this  man 
should  be  rash  and  foolhardy  enough  to  have  gone  to 
my  daughter?'  But  I  forgot  to  tell  you  his  name. 
Feodor  von  Brenda  was  the  name  of  the  treacherous 
guest,  and  Feodor  von  Brenda  was  also  the  name  of  the 
officer  who  left  the  commissioner,  perhaps  in  search  of 
some  love  adventure.  But  why  do  you  tremble?  "  asked 
he  in  a  loud  tone,  as  her  hand  quivered  in  his. 

"  I  do  not  tremble,  father,"  replied  she,  striving  for 
composure. 

Gotzkowsky  raised  his  voice  still  higher  till  it  sound- 
ed again.  "Forgive  me  this  suspicion,  my  daughter. 
I  should  have  known  that,  even  if  this  insolent  Russian 
dared  to  renew  a  former  acquaintance,  my  daughter 
would  never  be  so  mean,  never  stoop  so  low  as  to  wel- 
come him,  for  a  German  girl  would  never  throw  away 
her  honor  on  a  Russian  boor." 

"Father,"  cried  Elise,  terrified  and  forgetting  all 
her  prudence,  "  oh,  father!  do  not  speak  so  loud." 


THE  MERCHANT  DRAWS  PEODOR  FROM  HIS  HIDING-PLACE. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  H9 

"  Not  so  loud  ?  Why,  then,  some  one  can  hear  us  ?  " 
asked  Gotzkowsky,  pressing  the  arm  of  his  daughter. 
"I  will  speak  loud,  I  will  declare  it  aloud.  He  is  a 
scoundrel  who  conceals  himself  in  a  dastardly  and  dis- 
honorable manner,  instead  of  defending  himself!  a 
coward  who  would  put  the  honor  of  a  maiden  in  the 
scale  against  his  own  miserable  life.  No  German  would 
do  that.  Only  a  Kussian  would  be  base  enough  to  hide 
himself,  instead  of  defending  his  life  like  a  man!  " 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  bedroom  was  vio- 
lently torn  open,  and  the  Russian  colonel  appeared  on  the 
threshold,  his  cheeks  burning  and  his  eyes  flashing  with 
anger. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE   TWO   CANNONEERS. 

ELISE  uttered  a  cry  of  terror,  and  stared  at  her  lover 
with  wide-opened  eyes.  But  Gotzkowsky's  counte- 
nance was  illuminated  with  a  dark  and  savage  joy. 
"Ah,  at  last,  then! "  said  he,  letting  go  the  arm  of  his 
daughter,  and  grasping  his  sword. 

But  the  colonel  advanced  proudly  and  collectedly  to- 
ward him.  "  Here  am  I,  sir,"  said  he;  "  here  am  I,  to 
defend  myself  and  avenge  an  insult." 

"  I  have  driven  you  out  of  your  hiding-place,  as  the 
fox  draws  the  badger  out  of  his  kennel,"  cried  Gotzkow- 
sky, with  derisive  laughter,  purposely  calculated  to 
irritate  the  anger  of  the  young  officer  to  the  highest 
pitch. 

The  two  men  stood  opposite  to  each  other,  and  gazed 
at  one  another  with  faces  full  of  hatred  and  rage. 


120  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Elise  threw  herself  between  them,  and  falling  on  her 
knees  before  her  father,  exclaimed,  "  Kill  me,  father; 
gave  your  honor — kill  me!  " 

But  Gotzkowsky  slung  her  pitilessly  aside.  "  Away!  " 
cried  he,  roughly.  "  What  do  you  here  ?  Make  room  for 
us!  Here  is  a  man  with  whom  I  can  fight  for  my 
honor." 

Feodor  stepped  quickly  toward  Elise,  who  was  still 
kneeling  on  the  floor,  wringing  her  hands,  and  sobbing 
from  intense  pain.  He  raised  her  up,  and  whispering  a 
few  words  in  her  ear,  led  her  to  the  sofa.  He  then 
turned  to  Gotzkowsky,  and  said,  "Your  honor  is  pure 
and  unspotted,  sir!  Whatever  you  may  think  of  me, 
you  must  respect  the  virtue  of  your  daughter.  She  is 
innocent." 

"  Innocent,"  cried  Gotzkowsky  derisively,  "  inno- 
cent! why,  your  very  presence  has  polluted  the  inno- 
cence of  my  daughter." 

"  Father,  kill  me,  but  do  not  insult  me! "  cried  she, 
a  dark  glow  suffusing  her  cheeks. 

"  Pour  out  your  anger  on  me,"  said  Feodor  ardently. 
"  It  is  a  piece  of  barbarism  to  attack  a  defenceless  girl." 

Gotzkowsky  laughed  out  loud  and  scornfully:  "  You 
speak  of  barbarism,  and  you  a  Eussian!  " 

An  exclamation  of  rage  escaped  the  colonel;  he 
seized  his  sword  and  drawing  it  quickly  advanced  to- 
ward Gotzkowsky. 

"  At  last!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  triumphantly,  raising 
his  blade.  But  Elise,  beside  herself,  and  heedless  of  the 
flashing  steel,  threw  herself  between  them.  With  burn- 
ing words  she  entreated  Feodor  to  spare  her  father,  and 
not  to  raise  his  sword  against  him.  But  Gotzkowsky's 
voice  overpowered  hers.  Such  wild  words  of  contempt 
and  insulting  rage  issued  from  his  lips,  that  the  young 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEIiLIN. 

officer,  hurt  in  his  military  honor,  did  not  dare  to  listen 
to  the  voice  of  his  beloved.  It  was  he  now  who  pressed 
Elise  back,  and  with  raised  arm  placed  himself  opposite 
to  her  father. 

"  You  must  kill  me,  sir,  or  wash  out  this  insult  with 
your  blood,"  cried  he,  preparing  himself  for  the  combat. 

Both  were  then  silent.  It  was  a  terrible,  unearthly 
silence,  only  broken  by  the  clash  of  their  swords  or  the 
occasional  outcries  of  anger  or  savage  joy,  as  one  or  the 
other  received  or  gave  a  blow.  Elise  raised  her  head  to 
heaven  and  prayed;  every  thing  became  confused  before 
her  eyes,  her  head  swam,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  would  go 
crazy.  She  prayed  God  that  He  would  release  her  by 
madness  or  death  from  the  suffering  of  this  hour,  or  that 
He  would  point  out  to  her  some  way  of  deliverance  or  es- 
cape. But  in  the  violence  of  their  dispute  and  combat, 
the  two  men  had  not  heard  that  there  arose  suddenly 
in  the  house  a  loud  tumult  and  uproar;  they  had  not 
perceived  that  a  guard  of  soldiers  was  drawn  up  in  the 
street,  and  that  the  commanding  officer  with  a  loud 
voice  was  demanding  the  delivery  of  the  cannoneer  who 
had  taken  refuge  in  this  house. 

As  no  attention  was  paid  to  the  demand,  the  officer 
had  ordered  his  soldiers  to  break  open  the  doors  of  the 
house  and  enter  by  force.  But  Bertram  had  anticipated 
this  proceeding  by  having  the  door  opened,  and  request- 
ing the  Austrian  officer  to  search  the  house  with  his  men, 
and  convince  himself  that  no  one  was  concealed  in  it. 
With  most  industrious  energy,  and  mindful  of  the  price 
which  had  been  set  on  the  head  of  the  cannoneer,  the  sol- 
diers searched  every  room  in  the  house,  and  had  finally 
arrived  at  the  closed  door  of  the  hall. 

Just  as  the  combat  between  the  two  had  reached  its 
greatest  violence,  it  was  interrupted  by  fierce  blows  at  the 


122  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

door  from  butts  of  muskets,  and  they  were  compelled  to 
refrain  from  their  imbittered  struggle.  They  stopped 
and  listened,  but  Elise  sprang  from  her  knees,  rushed 
with  a  cry  of  delight  to  the  door  and  threw  it  open.  An 
officer  of  De  Lacy's  chasseurs  entered  with  some  of  his 
soldiers,  while  the  rest  of  the  men  filled  the  entrance 
hall  and  passages  of  the  house  with  noise  and  con- 
fusion. 

With  a  commanding  tone  the  Austrian  officer  de- 
manded the  delivery  of  the  cannoneer,  who,  he  asserted, 
had  been  seen  by  all  to  take  refuge  in  this  house,  whence 
it  was  impossible  that  he  could  have  escaped,  as  it  had 
been  immediately  surrounded.  And  as  no  one  answered 
his  threats,  but  only  a  sullen  silence  was  opposed  to  his 
violently  repeated  demand,  he  swore  that  he  would  burn 
down  the  house  and  let  no  one  escape  if  the  refugee  was 
not  given  up  at  once. 

Gotzkowsky  had  at  first  stood  like  one  stunned,  and 
scarcely  heard  what  the  officer  demanded  of  him. 
Gradually  he  began  to  recover  from  his  stupefaction  and 
regain  strength  to  turn  his  attention  to  things  around 
him.  He  raised  his  head  from  his  breast,  and,  as  if 
awaking  from  a  dream,  he  looked  around  with  bewil- 
dered amazement.  The  Austrian  officer  repeated  his 
demand  still  more  haughtily  and  threateningly.  Gotz- 
kowsky had  now  recovered  presence  of  mind  and  com- 
posure, and  declared  with  a  determined  voice,  that  no 
one  was  concealed  in  his  house. 

"  He  is  here!  "  cried  the  Austrian.  "  Our  men  have 
followed  his  track  thus  far,  and  marked  this  house  well. 
Deliver  him  up  to  us,  to  avoid  bloodshed/'  and,  turning 
to  his  soldiers,  he  continued,  "  Search  all  the  rooms — • 
search  carefully.  The  man  is  hidden  here,  and  we — " 

Suddenly  he  interrupted  his  order,  and  gazed  earnest- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  123 

ly  at  the  door  through  which  his  soldiers  were  press- 
ing in. 

"  Had  not  this  cannoneer,  as  he  fled  thither,  a  white 
cloak  around  him,  and  did  he  not  wear  a  broad-brimmed 
hat?"  asked  he. 

As  the  soldiers  answered  affirmatively,  the  officer 
stepped  toward  the  door,  and  drew  from  under  the  feet 
of  his  men  the  cloak  and  hat  of  the  cannoneer.  A  wild 
yell  of  joy  broke  from  the  soldiers. 

"  Do  you  still  persist  in  denying  that  this  man  is 
concealed  here?"  asked  the  officer,  raising  the  cloak. 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer,  but  gazed  on  the  ground 
absorbed  in  deep  thought. 

As  the  soldiers  thronged  into  the  room,  the  young 
Eussian  colonel  had  withdrawn  himself  to  a  remote 
part  of  the  room,  and  taken  the  most  lively  interest  in 
the  scene  acted  before  him.  A  word  from  him  would 
have  brought  the  whole  affair  to  an  end,  for,  as  an  invol- 
untary listener,  he  had  heard  all  that  had  transpired 
concerning  the  cannoneer.  Consequently  he  knew  ex- 
actly the  hiding-place  in  which  the  latter  had  been  con- 
gealed. But  it  had  never  come  into  his  mind  to  play 
the  informer  and  traitor.  He  was  only  intensely  inter- 
ested in  the  issue  of  the  scene,  and  firmly  determined,  if 
the  danger  should  grow  more  urgent,  to  hasten  with  his 
weapon  to  Gotzkowsky's  assistance,  and  to  defend  him 
against  the  fury  of  the  Austrians. 

Gotzkowsky  still  stood  silent.  He  was  trying  to  de- 
vise some  plan  by  which  he  might  save  the  brave  de- 
fender of  Berlin,  whose  presence,  after  such  positive 
proof,  he  could  no  longer  deny. 

As  suddenly  as  lightning  an  idea  seemed  to  penetrate 
his  mind,  his  countenance  cleared,  and  he  turned  with  a 
Bingular  expression  in  his  eye  to  Colonel  von  Brenda. 


124  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

"  Well!  "  asked  the  officer,  "  do  you  still  deny  it?  " 

"  No,  I  cannot  deny  it  any  longer/'  said  he,  in  a  de- 
termined tone.  "  You  are  right,  sir;  the  cannoneer  who 
shattered  your  ranks  is  here  in  my  house!  " 

The  soldiers  broke  out  again  in  a  triumphant  roar. 
But  Elise  looked  at  her  father  with  anxious  terror,  and 
sought,  trembling,  to  read  in  his  countenance  the  mean- 
ing of  these  words.  "  Can  he  possibly  be  capable  of  be- 
traying this  man  whom  he  has  sworn  to  protect? " 
thought  Feodor,  and  yielding  to  his  curiosity  he  ap- 
proached the  group  in  the  middle  of  the  hall.  Sud- 
denly he  felt  Gotzkowsky's  hand  laid  on  his  shoulder, 
and  met  his  dark  eye,  full  of  hatred. 

"  Well,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  with  a  loud,  defiant  voice, 
"you  are  looking  for  the  artilleryman,  Fritz.  Here 
he  is! " 

A  scream  and  a  burst  of  laughter  were  heard.  It 
was  Elise  who  uttered  the  scream,  and  the  colonel  who 
greeted  this  unexpected  turn  with  a  merry  laugh.  But 
Gotzkowsky  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  confused  by  one 
or  the  other. 

He  laid  his  arm  on  Feodor's  neck,  and  forced  his 
countenance  to  assume  a  friendly  expression.  "  Dear 
friend,"  said  he,  "  you  see  it  is  vain  any  longer  to  deny  it. 
Our  stratagem  has  unfortunately  failed." 

"  What  stratagem?  "  asked  the  Austrian  and  Feodor, 
simultaneously. 

Gotzkowsky  replied  in  a  sorrowful  tone  to  Feodor: 
"  Do  not  disguise  yourself  any  longer,  my  son!  you  see 
it  is  useless."  Then  turning  to  the  officer,  he  continued: 
**  We  had  hoped  that  he  might  escape  detection  in  this 
Eussian  uniform,  left  here  by  the  adjutant  of  General 
Sievers,  who  was  formerly  a  prisoner  of  war  in  my  house, 
but  unfortunately  the  hat  and  cloak  have  betrayed  him." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  125 

Feodor  von  Brenda  looked  at  Gotzkowsky  with  ad- 
miring wonder,  and  this  rapidly  invented  ruse  de  guerre 
pleased  him  astonishingly. 

It  was  a  piquant  adventure  offered  him  by  Gotzkow- 
sky's  hate  and  cunning,  and  he  did  not  feel  inclined  to 
throw  away  such  an  original  and  interesting  chance  of 
excitement.  He,  the  Eussian  colonel,  and  Count  von 
Brenda,  the  favorite  of  the  empress,  degraded  to  a 
Prussian  cannoneer,  whose  life  was  in  danger!  His 
wilful  and  foolhardy  imagination  was  pleased  with  the 
idea  of  playing  the  part  of  a  criminal  condemned  to 
death. 

"  Well,"  asked  the  Austrian  officer,  "  do  you  acknowl- 
edge the  truth  of  this  statement,  or  do  you  deny  being 
the  cannoneer,  Fritz?" 

"Why  should  I  deny  it?"  answered  Feodor,  shrug- 
ging his  shoulders.  "  This  gentleman,  who  ought  to 
have  saved  me,  has  already  betrayed  me.  I  am  the  man 
whom  you  seek! " 

With  a  scream  of  surprise,  Elise  threw  herself  toward 
her  lover. 

"  No!  "  cried  she,  loudly,  "  no,  he  is—" 

Her  father's  hand  pressed  heavily  on  her  lips.  "  An- 
other word,  and  you  are  a  murderess!  "  whispered  he. 

The  officer  looked  suspiciously  at  them.  "  You  do 
not  deny,"  asked  he  of  Feodor,  "  that  you  are  he  who 
directed  such  a  murderous  fire  on  our  lines?  You  do 
not  deny  that  you  are  the  artilleryman,  Fritz,  and  that 
this  cloak  and  hat  belong  to  you?  " 

"  I  deny  nothing! "  replied  Feodor,  defiantly. 

The  officer  called  to  some  of  his  men  and  ordered 
them  to  shoulder  arms,  and  take  the  prisoner  in  their 
midst;  enjoining  them  to  keep  a  sharp  watch  on  him, 

and  at  the  first  attempt  to  escape,  to  shoot  him  down. 
9 


126  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

But  when  he  demanded  his  sword  of  the  colonel,  the 
latter  recoiled,  shocked,  and  resisted. 

He  now  became  aware  of  his  foolhardiness  and  rash- 
ness, and  that  he  had  not  considered  or  foreseen  the  dan- 
gerous and  perhaps  dishonorable  consequences.  How- 
ever, as  he  had  gone  so  far,  he  considered  that  it  would 
be  disgraceful  and  cowardly  to  retreat  now.  He  was 
also  desirous  of  pursuing  to  the  end  this  adventure  which 
he  had  begun  with  so  much  boldness  and  daring.  He 
drew  his  sword,  and  with  considerable  strength  break- 
ing it  in  pieces,  he  threw  them  at  the  feet  of  the  Austrian 
officer. 

That  officer  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Your  inso- 
lence will  only  make  your  situation  worse.  Kemember, 
you  are  our  prisoner." 

"  He  must  and  shall  die! "  shouted  the  soldiers, 
thronging  around  Feodor,  angrily. 

The  officer  ordered  silence.  "  He  must  die,"  said 
he,  "  that  is  true;  but  we  must  first  carry  him  to  the 
general,  to  obtain  the  price  offered  for  him." 

The  soldiers  surrounded  him  and  shoved  him  toward 
the  door.  But  Elise  broke  through  the  crowd.  With 
flashing  eyes,  and  cheeks  burning  with  a  feverish  excite- 
ment, she  rushed  toward  Feodor.  "  No! "  cried  she, 
with  all  the  ardor  of  love,  "no,  I  will  not  leave  you. 
You  are  going  to  your  death!  " 

Feodor  kissed  her  lightly  on  the  forehead,  and  re- 
plied with  a  smile,  "  I  fear  nothing.  Fortune  does  not 
forsake  a  brave  soldier." 

He  then  took  her  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to  her 
father.  Gazing  on  him  with  a  long  and  speaking  look, 
he  continued:  "  Here,  Father  Gotzkowsky,  I  bring  your 
daughter  to  you:  be  a  better  father  to  her  than  you  have 
been  a  friend  to  me.  These  are  my  farewell  words." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  12? 

He  leaned  forward  as  if  to  give  Gotzkowsky  a  part- 
ing embrace,  and  whispered  to  him:  "  I  hope  we  are  now 
quit!  I  have  atoned  for  my  fault.  You  will  no  longer 
wish  to  punish  your  daughter  for  my  transgression." 

He  then  threw  the  white  cloak  around  him,  and  bid- 
ding Elise,  who  leaned  half  fainting  against  her  father, 
a  tender  farewell,  he  stepped  back  into  the  ranks  of  the 
guard. 

"Attention!  shoulder  arms!"  commanded  the  offi- 
cer; and  the  Austrians  left  the  hall  with  closed  ranks, 
the  prisoner  in  their  midst. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

FATHER   GOTZKOWSKY. 

THE  door  had  closed  behind  the  soldiers  and  their 
prisoner.  Gotzkowsky  and  Elise  remained  behind,  si- 
lent and  immersed  in  the  deep  sorrows  of  their  souls. 
Neither  spoke  a  word;  both  stood  motionless  and  lis- 
tened. 

They  heard  the  soldiers  hurry  down  the  steps;  they 
heard  the  house  door  violently  thrown  open,  and  the 
officer  announce  in  a  loud  voice  to  those  of  his  soldiers 
who  were  waiting  in  the  street,  the  lucky  capture  of  the 
artilleryman. 

A  cry  of  triumph  from  the  Austrians  was  the  answer; 
then  was  heard  the  loud  word  of  command  from  the 
officer,  and  the  roll  of  the  drum  gradually  receding  in 
the  distance  until  it  was  no  longer  audible.  Every  thing 
was  silent. 

"  Have  mercy,  Father  in  heaven,  have  mercy!     They 


128  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

are  leading  him  to  death!  "  cried  Elise  in  a  heartrend- 
ing tone,  and  she  sank  on  her  knees  in  prayer. 

"  The  brave  cannoneer  is  saved! "  murmured  Gotz^ 
kowsky  in  a  low  voice  to  himself,  and  he  too  folded  his 
hands  in  prayer.  Was  it  a  prayer  of  gratitude,  or  did  it 
proceed  from  the  despairing  heart  of  a  father? 

His  countenance  had  a  bright  and  elevated  expres- 
sion; but  as  he  turned  his  eyes  down  on  his  daughter, 
still  on  her  knees,  they  darkened,  and  his  features 
twitched  convulsively  and  painfully.  His  anger  had 
evaporated,  and  his  heart  was  filled  with  boundless  pity 
and  love.  He  felt  nothing  but  painful,  sorrowful  com- 
passion for  this  young  girl  who  lay  deathly  pale  and 
trembling  with  suffering  on  the  floor.  His  daughter 
was  weeping,  and  his  heart  yearned  toward  her  to 
forgive  her  every  thing,  to  raise  her  up  and  comfort 
her. 

Suddenly  Elise  started  up  from  her  knees  and  strode 
toward  her  father.  There  was  something  solemn  and 
imposing  in  her  proud  bearing,  her  extraordinary  com- 
posure, which  only  imperfectly  veiled  her  raging  grief 
and  passionate  excitement. 

"  Father,"  said  she  solemnly,  and  her  voice  sounded 
hoarse  and  cold,  "may  God  forgive  you  for  what  you 
have  done!  At  this  moment,  when  perhaps  he  is  suffer- 
ing death,  I  repeat  it,  I  am  innocent." 

This  proud  composure  fell  freezingly  on  Gotzkow- 
sky's  heart,  and  drove  back  all  the  milder  forgiving  im- 
pulses. He  remembered  only  the  shame  and  the  in- 
jured honor  of  his  daughter. 

"  You  assert  your  innocence,  and  yet  you  had  a  man 
concealed  in  the  night  in  your  bedchamber!  " 

"  And  yet  I  am  innocent,  father! "  cried  Elise 
rehemently.  "Head  it  on  my  forehead,  see  it  in  my 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN".  129 

eyes,  which  do  not  fear  to  meet  yours.  I  am  inno- 
cent! " 

And  completely  overpowered  by  the  bitter  and  des- 
perate anguish  of  her  soul,  she  continued,  still  more  ex- 
cited, "  But  how  does  all  this  concern  you?  It  was  not 
my  honor  that  you  were  interested  in;  you  did  not  seek 
to  avenge  that.  You  only  wished  to  punish  me  for  dar- 
ing to  assert  my  freedom  and  independence,  for  daring 
to  love  without  having  asked  your  leave.  The  rich  man 
to  whom  all  bend,  whom  all  worship  as  the  priest  of  the 
powerful  idol  which  rules  the  world,  the  rich  man  sees 
with  dismay  that  there  is  one  being  not  dazzled  by  his 
treasures  who  owns  an  independent  life,  a  will  of  her 
own,  and  a  heart  that  he  cannot  command.  And  be- 
cause this  being  does  not  of  her  own  accord  bow  down 
before  him  he  treads  it  in  the  dust,  whether  it  be  his 
own  child  or  not." 

"  Elise,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  shocked,  "  Elise,  are  you 
mad?  Do  you  know  that  you  are  speaking  to  your 
father?" 

But  her  tortured  heart  did  not  notice  this  appeal; 
and  only  remembering  that  perhaps  at  this  moment  her 
lover  was  suffering  death  through  her  father's  fault,  she 
allowed  herself  to  be  carried  away  by  the  overpowering 
force  of  her  grief.  She  met  the  flashing  eye  of  her 
father  with  a  smile  of  contempt,  and  said,  coldly:  "  Oh 
yes,  you  may  look  at  me.  I  do  not  fear  your  angry 
glances.  I  am  free;  you  yourself  have  absolved  me  from 
any  fear  of  you.  You  took  from  me  my  lover,  and  at  the 
same  time  deprived  yourself  of  your  child." 

"  0  God! "  cried  Gotzkowsky  in  an  undertone,  "  have 
I  deserved  this,  Father  in  heaven?"  and  he  regarded 
his  daughter  with  a  touching  expression. 

But  she  was  inexorable;  sorrow  had  unseated  her 


130  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

judgment,  and  "  Oh! "  cried  she  in  a  tone  of  triumph, 
"  now  I  will  confess  every  thing  to  you,  how  I  have  suf- 
fered and  what  I  have  undergone." 

"  Elise!  "  cried  he  painfully,  "  have  I  not  given  you 
every  thing  your  heart  could  desire?  " 

"  Yes!  "  cried  she,  with  a  cruel  laugh,  "  you  fulfilled 
all  my  wishes,  and  thereby  made  me  poor  in  wishes,  poor 
in  enjoyment.  You  deprived  me  of  the  power  of  wish- 
ing, for  every  thing  was  mine  even  before  I  could  de- 
sire it.  It  was  only  necessary  for  me  to  stretch  out  my 
hand,  and  it  belonged  to  me.  Cheerless  and  solitary 
I  stood  amidst  your  wealth,  and  all  that  I  touched  was 
turned  into  hard  gold.  The  rich  man's  daughter  en- 
vied the  beggar  woman  in  the  street,  for  she  still  had 
wishes,  hopes,  and  privations." 

Gotzkowsky  listened  to  her,  without  interrupting  her 
by  a  word  or  even  a  sigh.  Only  now  and  then  he  raised 
his  hand  to  his  forehead,  or  cast  a  wandering,  doubtful 
look  at  his  daughter,  as  if  to  convince  himself  that  all 
that  was  passing  was  not  a  mad,  bewildering  dream,  but 
painful,  cruel  reality. 

But  when  Elise,  breathless  and  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, stopped  for  a  moment,  and  he  no  longer  heard 
her  cutting  accents  of  reproach,  he  pressed  both  hands 
upon  his  breast,  as  if  to  suppress  a  wail  over  the  annihila- 
tion of  his  whole  life.  "  0  God!  "  muttered  he  in  a  low 
voice,  "this  is  unparalleled  agony!  This  cuts  into  a 
father's  heart! " 

After  a  pause,  Elise  continued:  "  I  too  was  a  beggar, 
and  I  hungered  for  the  bread  of  your  love." 

"Elise,  oh,  my  child,  do  you  not  know  then  that  I 
love  you  infinitely?  " 

But  she  did  not  perceive  the  loving,  almost  imploring 
looks  which  her  father  cast  upon  her.  She  could  see 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  131 

and  think  only  of  herself  and  her  own  tormented 
heart. 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  "  you  love  me  as  one  loves  a  jewel, 
and  has  it  set  in  gold  in  order  to  make  it  more 
brilliant.  You  loved  me  as  a  costly  ornament  of  your 
rooms,  as  something  which  gave  you  an  opportunity  of 
exercising  the  splendor  of  your  liberality,  and  to  be 
produced  as  an  evidence  of  your  renowned  wealth.  But 
you  did  not  love  me  as  a  father;  you  did  not  perceive 
that  I  wept  in  secret,  or  if  you  did  see  it,  you  consoled 
me  with  diamonds,  with  rich  dresses,  to  make  me  smile. 
But  you  did  not  give  me  your  father's  heart.  At  last 
the  rich  man's  child  discovers  a  happiness  not  to  be 
bought  with  gold  or  treasures,  a  happiness  that  the  mil- 
lions of  her  father  could  not  purchase  for  her.  This 
happiness  is — love.  The  only  possession  that  I  have 
owned,  father,  contrary  to  your  will,  you  have  deprived 
me  of,  because  it  was  mine  against  your  will.  Now, 
poor  rich  man,  take  all  your  gold,  and  seek  and  buy 
yourself  a  child  with  it.  Me  you  have  lost! "  and 
staggering  back  with  a  sob,  she  sank  fainting  on  the 
carpet. 

A  dread  silence  now  reigned  in  the  room.  Gotz- 
kowsky  stood  motionless,  with  his  eyes  directed  toward 
heaven.  The  cruel,  mocking  words  of  his  daughter 
sounded  over  and  over  again  in  his  ears,  and  seemed  to 
petrify  the  power  of  his  will  and  chain  him  fast,  as  if 
rooted  to  the  floor.  Gradually  he  recovered  from  this 
apathy  of  grief.  The  stagnant  blood  revived  in  his 
veins,  and  shot  like  burning  streams  of  fire  to  his  heart. 
He  bent  over  his  daughter,  and  gazing  for  a  long  time  at 
her,  his  features  assumed  a  gentler  and  softer  expression. 
Tenderly  with  his  hand  he  smoothed  the  tresses  from  her 
clear,  high  forehead;  and  as  he  did  so,  he  almost  smiled 


132  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

again,  so  beautiful  and  charming  did  she  seem  to  him  in 
her  death-like  repose. 

"  She  has  fainted,"  whispered  he,  low,  as  if  fearful  of 
awakening  her.  "  So  much  the  better  for  her;  and 
when  she  recovers,  may  she  have  forgotten  all  the  cruel 
words  that  she  has  uttered!  " 

He  laid  his  hand  on  her  head  as  if  to  bless  her,  and 
love  and  forgiveness  were  expressed  in  his  looks.  A 
perfect  peace  seemed  to  pervade  his  whole  frame.  In 
this  moment  he  forgave  her  all  the  pain,  all  the  suffering 
she  had  caused  him.  He  pardoned  her  those  unjust  re- 
proaches and  accusations,  and  with  lofty  emotion,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  toward  heaven,  he  exclaimed,  "  0  God!  thou 
seest  my  heart.  Thou  knowest  that  love  alone  has  pos- 
session of  its  very  depths,  love  to  my  child!  and  my  child 
has  no  faith  in  me.  I  have  worked — I  am  rich — I  have 
amassed  wealth — only  for  her.  I  thought  of  my  child 
as  I  sat  at  my  desk  during  the  long,  weary  nights,  busied 
with  difficult  calculations.  I  remembered  my  daughter 
when  I  was  wearied  out  and  overcome  by  this  laborious 
work.  She  should  be  happy;  she  should  be  rich  and 
great  as  any  princess;  for  this  I  worked.  I  had  no  time 
to  toy  or  laugh  with  her,  for  I  was  working  for  her  like 
a  slave.  And  this,"  continued  he  with  a  sad  smile,  "  this 
is  what  she  reproaches  me  with.  There  is  nothing  in 
which  I  believe,  nothing  but  my  child,  and  my  child  does 
not  believe  in  me!  The  world  bows  down  before  me,  and 
I  am  the  poorest  and  most  miserable  beggar." 

Overpowered  by  these  bitter  thoughts,  which  crowded 
tumultuously  upon  his  brain,  he  leaned  his  head  upon 
his  hand  and  wept  bitterly.  Then,  after  a  long  pause, 
he  drew  himself  up  erect,  and,  with  a  determined  ges- 
ture, shook  the  tears  from  his  eyes. 

"Enough!"  said  he,  loudly  and  firmly,  "enough; 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  133 

my  duty  shall  cure  me  of  all  this  suffering.  That  I  must 
not  neglect." 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  servant-maids,  who 
appeared,  to  raise  up  the  insensible  girl  and  bear  her  to 
her  room. 

But  when  the  maidens  called  the  waiting-man  to 
their  assistance  to  raise  their  mistress,  Gotzkowsky 
puahed  them  all  aside,  and  carried  her  softly  and  gently, 
as  carefully  and  tenderly  as  a  mother,  to  a  couch,  on 
which  he  placed  her.  He  then  pressed  a  fervent  kiss 
upon  her  brow.  Elise  began  to  move,  a  faint  blush  over- 
spread her  cheeks,  she  opened  her  eyes.  Gotzkowsky 
immediately  stepped  back,  and  signed  to  her  maids  to 
carry  her  into  her  room. 

He  looked  after  her  until  she  had  disappeared,  his 
eyes  dimmed  with  tears.  "  My  child,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
voice,  "  she  is  lost  to  me.  Oh,  I  am  a  poor,  pitiable 
father! "  With  a  deep  groan  he  pressed  his  hands  to 
his  face,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the  painful  sobs 
wrung  from  the  heart  of  this  father  wrestling  with  his 
grief. 

Suddenly  there  arose  from  without  loud  lamentations 
and  cries  for  help.  They  came  nearer  and  nearer,  and 
at  last  reached  Gotzkowsky's  house,  and  filled  its  halls 
and  passages.  It  was  not  the  outcry  of  a  single  person. 
From  many  voices  came  the  sounds  of  lamenting  and 
weeping,  screams  and  shrieks: 

"Help!  help!  have  pity  on  us,  save  us!  The  Aus- 
trians  are  hewing  us  down — they  are  burning  our  houses 
— save  us! " 

Gotzkowsky  dropped  his  hands  from  his  face  and 
listened.  "  What  was  that?  who  cries  for  help?  "  asked 
he,  dreamingly,  still  occupied  with  his  own  sorrows, 
scarcely  conscious  of  the  reality.  But  suddenly  he  start- 


134:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

ed,  and  from  his  eyes  beamed  life  and  courage.  "  Ah!  " 
cried  he  aloud,  "  mankind  is  suffering,  and  I  am  thinking 
of  my  own  griefs.  I  know  these  voices.  The  wives  and 
children  of  my  workmen,  the  poor  and  oppressed  of  the 
city  are  calling  me.  The  people  need  me.  Up,  Gotz- 
kowsky!  give  them  your  heart,  your  life.  Endeavor  to 
be  a  father  to  the  unfortunate,  and  you  will  not  be  poor 
in  children! " 

Without  the  wailing  and  cries  for  help  continued  to 
resound,  and  the  voices  of  weeping  and  trembling  women 
and  plaintive  children  cried  aloud,  "  Gotzkowsky,  help 
us!  have  pity  on  us,  Father  Gotzkowsky!  " 

"  Father! "  cried  he,  raising  his  head,  his  counte- 
nance beaming  with  delight.  "  They  call  me  fatherk  and 
yet  I  complain.  Up!  to  my  children  who  love  me,  and 
who  need  my  help!  " 


BOOK  II. 
CHAPTER   I. 

THE   TWO    EDITORS. 

ON  the  morning  succeeding  the  night  of  horrors  and 
confusion  in  which  Berlin  had  surrendered  to  the  con- 
queror, the  vanguard  of  the  Russians  marched  into  the 
town  through  the  Konig's  Gate.  But  the  commanding 
general,  Tottleben,  wished  to  make  his  triumphal  entry 
with  his  staff  and  the  main  body  of  his  army  through  the 
Kottbuss  Gate,  and  had  ordered  the  magistracy  of  the 
town  to  meet  him  there,  and  to  bring  with  them  a  depu- 
tation of  the  merchants,  to  determine  what  contribution 
should  be  laid  upon  them.  But  before  the  Russian 
general  could  make  his  entry,  the  vanguard  of  De  Lacy's 
army  corps  had  penetrated  into  the  Frederick  Street 
suburb,  and  were  committing  the  most  atrocious  acts  of 
cruelty  in  the  New  Street.  With  wild  yells  they  entered 
the  houses  to  rob  and  plunder,  ill-treating  those  who  re- 
fused to  give  up  their  valuables,  and  by  violent  threats 
of  incendiarism,  raising  forced  levies  from  the  frightened 
inhabitants. 

But  it  was  not  alone  this  lust  of  plunder  in  ihe  sol- 
diers which  spread  terror  and  dismay  in  each  house  and 
in  every  family.  Count  De  Lacy  possessed  a  list  of  those 
persons  who,  by  word,  deed,  or  writing,  had  declared 
against  Austria  or  Russia,  and  he  gave  it  to  his  officers, 
with  the  order  that  they  should  not  hesitate  at  any  meas- 

185 


136  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

ures,  any  threats  or  acts  of  violence,  to  obtain  possession 
of  these  people.  Besides  which,  he  promised  a  consider- 
able reward  for  each  "  traitor  "  brought  to  him;  and  it 
was  therefore  no  wonder  that  these  officers,  with  brutal 
and  avaricious  zeal,  had  scarcely  arrived  in  the  city  before 
they  commenced  the  pursuit  of  these  outlaws.  With 
fearful  yells  they  rushed  into  the  houses,  shouting  out 
the  names  of  those  on  the  pursuit  of  whom  they  were 
bent,  and  whose  seizure  would  secure  them  a  golden  re- 
ward. 

Naturally  enough,  the  writers  and  journalists  were 
the  first  on  whom  the  vengeful  wrath  of  the  conqueror 
was  poured,  for  it  has  ever  been  the  lot  of  authors  to 
suffer  for  the  misfortunes  of  the  people,  to  be  made  re- 
sponsible for  the  being  and  thinking,  the  will  and  action 
of  the  nation  to  which  they  belong.  But  it  is  only  in 
days  of  misfortune  that  the  responsibility  of  authors  and 
poets  commences.  They  must  answer  for  the  ill  luck, 
but  are  never  rewarded  for  the  happiness  of  the  nation. 

Three  names,  especially,  did  De  Lacy's  chasseurs  cry 
out  with  a  raging  howl  for  vengeance,  through  the 
Frederick-Stadt  and  down  the  Linden  Street,  and  they 
searched  for  their  owners  in  every  house. 

"De  Justi!  De  Justi!  " — with  this  cry  one  of  the 
Austrian  officers  rushed  through  the  street,  knocked  with 
his  sword  violently  against  the  closed  house  doors,  and 
demanded  with  savage  threats  the  delivery  of  this  crimi- 
nal for  whose  arrest  a  high  premium  had  been  offered. 

M.  Pe  Justi  was  indeed  a  notorious  criminal.  Not 
that  he  had  written  much  cr  badly,  but  principally  be- 
cause he  had  dared  to  use  his  sharp  pen  against  the  Aus- 
trian empress,  and  her  allies  the  Eussians  and  Saxons. 
It  was  especially  three  pamphlets  which  excited  the 
wrath  of  the  victorious  enemy.  These  pamphlets  were 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  137 

called:  '*  Proof  that  the  Empress  should  be  deposed;" 
"  Why  and  wherefore  Certain  Nations  in  Europe  are 
disposed  to  become  Anthropophagous/'  and  lastly, 
"Account  of  the  life  of  Count  Briihl."  He  had 
offended  not  only  the  Austrians,  but  also  the  Kussians 
and  Saxons.  It  was  therefore  natural  that  these 
three  powers  reigning  in  Berlin  should  wish  to  take 
their  revenge  on  the  writer  of  these  insulting  pamph- 
lets. 

But  De  Justi  had  been  prudent  enough  to  escape 
from  the  pursuit  of  his  revengeful  enemies.  During 
the  siege  he  had  betaken  himself  to  the  house  of  a  friend 
in  a  more  secure  street,  and  had  hidden  in  the  cellar, 
where  it  was  impossible  to  find  him.  As  they  could 
not  get  possession  of  the  writer,  they  were  obliged  to 
cool  their  wrath  on  his  treasonable  writings.  They  were 
dragged  in  his  stead,  as  prisoners  of  state  and  dangerous 
criminals,  to  headquarters  at  the  New  Market. 

The  two  other  writers,  whom  the  Austrians  pursued 
with  furious  zeal,  were  the  two  newspaper  editors, 
Kretschmer  and  Krause.  These  two  had  no  idea  of  such 
pursuit;  indeed,  they  did  not  even  know  that  the  Aus- 
trians had  penetrated  into  the  city.  In  the  safe  hiding- 
place  in  which  both  of  them  had  passed  the  night  they 
had  only  learned  that  Berlin  had  surrendered  to  the  Eus- 
sians,  and  that  General  Tottleben  had  ordered  the  magis- 
trates to  receive  him  the  next  morning  at  the  Kottbuss 
Gate  at  eight  o'clock. 

It  was  intended  that  the  reception  should  be  a  bril- 
liant and  solemn  one,  and  that  the  general  should  be 
mollified  and  conciliated  by  humble  subjection;  it  was 
also  determined  to  endeavor,  by  an  offering  of  money 
made  to  him  individually,  to  induce  him  to  make  the 
contribution  laid  on  the  town  moderate  and  light. 


138  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

The  news  was  like  a  thunder-clap  to  the  two  editors, 
for  it  compelled  them  to  leave  their  safe  hiding-place, 
and  to  venture  out  into  the  dangerous  world.  For  these 
gentlemen,,  editors  of  such  renowned  journals,  who 
prided  themselves  on  giving  their  readers  the  most  re- 
cent and  important  intelligence,  would  not  dare  to  be 
absent  at  the  reception  of  the  Russian  general.  For  the 
love  of  their  country  they  had  to  forget  their  own  fears, 
and,  for  the  honor  of  their  journals,  face  danger  like  true 
heroes. 

Day  had  scarcely  dawned,  and  deep  silence  and  death- 
like stillness  reigned  at  the  Kottbuss  Gate.  The  wings 
of  the  gate  were  closed,  and  the  watchman  had  with- 
drawn into  his  little  box,  and  was  resting  from  the  events 
of  the  past  days.  Dawn  still  lay  like  a  veil  over  poor, 
anxious  Berlin,  and  concealed  her  tears  and  bloody 
wounds. 

The  silence  was  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sound  of 
approaching  footsteps,  and  around  the  nearest  corner 
glided  the  cowering  figure  of  a  man.  He  remained  still 
for  a  minute  and  listened;  then,  convinced  that  all 
around  him  was  quiet  and  silent,  he  crept  along,  keep- 
ing anxiously  close  to  the  houses,  and  reached  unper- 
ceived  the  pillar  on  the  right  side  of  the  gate,  in  the  dark 
shadow  of  which  he  concealed  himself.  This  man  was  no 
other  than  Mr.  Kretschmer,  the  editor  of  the  Vossian 
Gazette,  who  made  himself  comfortable  in  his  hiding- 
place. 

"This  is  quite  nice  and  right,"  said  he,  shoving  a 
stone  behind  the  pillar,  in  order  to  raise  himself  to  a 
higher  point  of  view.  "  From  here  I  can  hear  and  ob- 
serve every  thing." 

So,  settling  himself  on  the  stone,  he  leaned  back  in 
the  corner  of  the  door-pillar,  as  if  it  were  the  leathern 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  139 

arm-chair  in  his  sanctum.  A  comfortable  smile  stole 
over  his  features. 

"  This  time,"  said  he,  "  at  least,  I  have  forestalled 
my  rival,  good  Mr.  Krause.  To-morrow  the  Vossian 
Gazette  will  be  the  only  one  which  will  be  able  to  re- 
port, from  actual  observation,  on  the  formal  entry  of  the 
Russian  general.  Oh,  how  vexed  Spener's  will  be! 
There  is  seven  o'clock  striking.  In  an  hour  the  cere- 
mony will  begin.  Spener's  Journal  still  sleeps,  while 
the  Vossian  Gazette  wakes  and  works,  and  is  alert  to 
satisfy  the  curiosity  of  Berlin." 

Poor,  benighted  editor  of  the  Vossian!  You,  in- 
deed, could  not  see  him,  but  the  veil  of  the  dawning  day, 
which  spread  over  Berlin,  concealed  your  rival,  as  well 
as  yourself,  in  its  folds.  His  drawn-up  figure  was  not 
visible  to  your  dimmed  sight,  as  he  sneaked  along  the 
houses,  and  hid  himself  behind  the  pillar  on  the  left 
of  the  gate.  While  you  were  rejoicing  over  the  long 
sleep  of  Spener's  Journal,  its  editor,  Mr.  Krause,  was 
standing  opposite  to  you,  behind  the  pillar,  whither 
he  had  come,  notwithstanding  his  sixty-eight  years,  like 
you,  to  witness  the  entrance  of  the  Russians.  And  happy 
was  he  in  spirit  at  this  victory  obtained  over  his  rival, 
the  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  and  it  made  him  very 
proud  indeed  to  think  that  this  once  he  had  forestalled 
Mr.  Kretschmer,  and  consequently  would  have  the  mo- 
nopoly of  describing  in  the  morning's  paper,  to  the  peo- 
ple of  Berlin,  the  magnificent  and  pompous  entrance  of 
the  Russians! 

The  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette  had  no  idea  of  the 
vicinity  of  his  rival.  He  continued  to  congratulate 
himself  on  the  advantage  he  had  obtained,  and  proceeded 
cheerfully  in  his  soliloquy.  "It  makes  me  laugh  to 
think  of  Spener's  Journal  I,  myself,  advised  Mr. 


140  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Krause  to  conceal  himself,  and  the  good  man  faithfully 
followed  my  advice.  Perhaps  the  little  old  gentleman 
dreams  that  I  am  at  this  moment  sitting  by  my  fireside, 
while  there  is  so  much  matter  for  my  newspaper  here. 
Good  matter,  too,  that  can  be  moulded  into  an  interest- 
ing article,  is  not  so  common  that  it  can  be  carelessly 
squandered.  Sleep,  therefore,  sleep,  good  Spener — the 
Vossian  wakes." 

But  Spener  did  not  sleep.  He  was  at  the  opposite 
pillar,  smirking  and  saying  to  himself,  "  How  lucky  it  is 
that  I  have  anticipated  the  Vossian ! "  He  then  was 
silent,  but  his  thoughts  were  active,  and  in  the  bottom 
of  his  heart  he  instituted  some  very  serious  reflections 
upon  the  superfluousness  of  a  second  newspaper,  how 
perfectly  unnecessary  it  was  in  fact. 

"  This  Vossian  Gazette  is  perfectly  intolerable/' 
thought  he.  "  There  ought  to  be  a  law  prohibiting  the 
publishing  of  more  than  one  newspaper  in  each  town. 
Then  the  public  would  always  get  reliable  news,  and 
draw  its  political  opinions  from  one  source,  which  would 
be  undoubted,  and  it  would  accept  as  true  what  we  gave 
forth  for  truth.  If  the  government  would  follow  this 
plan,  and  allow  only  one  newspaper  to  each  town,  and 
conciliate  this  one  with  money  or  patronage,  mankind 
would  be  much  happier  and  more  contented,  and  less 
liable  to  be  distracted  by  the  most  opposite  political 
views  and  information.  What  profits  the  existence  of 
this  Vossian  Gazette?  What  does  it  do  but  rob  me  of 
my  subscribers?  By  Heavens!  I  wish  the  Kussian  would 
exterminate  it  thoroughly." 

While  Mr.  Krause  was  thus  speaking  to  himself,  Mr. 
Kretschmer  had  followed  the  same  course  of  thought, 
and,  very  naturally,  arrived  at  a  similar  conclusion.  He, 
too,  had  to  confess  that  Spener's  Journal  was  very  in- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  Ul 

convenient,  and  hated  its  editor  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart.  In  the  vehemence  of  his  vexation,  he  overlooked 
the  necessary  precaution,  and  cried  out,  "  Cursed  be  this 
rival,  this  man  who  has  the  presumption  to  imagine  he 
can  compete  with  me!  " 

Mr.  Krause  shuddered  at  the  sound  of  this  voice, 
which  seemed  to  him  as  it  were  the  echo  of  his  own  un- 
spoken thoughts,  but  he  mastered  his  alarm,  and  cried 
aloud,  "  Did  any  one  speak?  "  "  Did  any  one  speak?  " 
sounded  back  again,  and  two  heads  were  seen  protruding 
from  the  pillars  on  each  side  of  the  gate,  the  eyes  in 
them  inquiringly  peering  at  each  other.  The  morning 
in  the  mean  while  had  become  lighter,  and,  with  an 
inward  shudder,  the  two  gentlemen  recognized  each 
other. 

"  It  is  Spear's!  May  the  devil  take  him!  "  thought 
Mr.  Kretschmer. 

"It  is  the  Vossian!  Damn  the  fellow!"  thought 
Mr.  Krause. 

But  while  they  thought  this  to  themselves,  they 
rushed  forward  and  embraced  each  other,  with  greetings 
and  assurances  of  friendship,  to  all  appearances  warm 
and  sincere. 

"  I  am  not  mistaken!     It  is  my  dear  friend  Krause." 

"  Oh,  what  happiness!  my  dear  Kretschmer! " 

And  they  shook  each  other's  hands  and  repeated  their 
asseverations  of  friendship  and  esteem,  but,  at  the  same 
time,  breathed  in  their  hearts  their  curses  and  execra- 
tions. But  the  two  editors  were  not  the  only  persons 
who  had  sought  the  Kottbuss  Gate  at  this  early  hour. 
An  Austrian  officer  with  a  guard  of  soldiers,  in  his 
search  after  the  two  editors,  had  also  reached  the  spot, 
and  was  marching  with  his  men  from  the  corner  near 
the  gate,  looking  eagerly  right  and  left  and  up  at  all 
10 


142  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

the  windows.  His  eye  fell  upon  these  two  men  who 
were  shrinking  from  his  sight,  uttering  pious  ejacula- 
tions to  Heaven.  The  officer  approached  them  and  de- 
manded their  names.  Neither  answered.  The  officer 
repeated  his  question,  and  accompanied  it  with  such 
threats  as  convinced  Mr.  Krause  of  the  imperative  neces- 
sity of  answering  it.  He  bowed,  therefore,  respectfully 
to  the  officer,  and  pointing  to  his  friend,  said,  "  This  is 
Mr.  Kretschmer,  the  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette." 

Kretschmer  cast  upon  him  a  look  full  of  hatred  and 
revenge.  "  And  this,"  said  he,  with  a  wicked  smile,  "  is 
Mr.  Krause,  editor  of  Spener's  Journal." 

An  expression  of  joyous  triumph  shone  in  the  coun- 
tenance of  the  officer:  "  You  are  my  prisoners,  gentle- 
men," said  he,  as  he  beckoned  to  his  soldiers  to  arrest 
them. 

Pale  did  Mr.  Krause  grow  as  he  drew  back  a  step. 
"  Sir,  this  must  be  a  mistake.  We  are  quiet,  peaceable 
citizens,  who  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  war,  but  only 
busy  ourselves  with  our  pens." 

"  Our  arrest  is  contrary  to  all  national  law,"  cried 
Mr.  Kretschmer,  at  the  same  time  endeavoring  to  de- 
fend himself  from  the  weapons  which  were  pointed  at 
him. 

The  officer  laughed.  "  In  war  we  know  no  national 
law.  You  are  my  prisoners."  And  disregarding  their 
struggles  and  cries  for  help,  they  dragged  the  two 
editors  as  prisoners  to  the  guard-house  at  the  New 
Market. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEELIN.  143 

CHAPTEK    II. 

THE   CHIEF   MAGISTRATE    OF    BERLIN. 

AFTER  a  short  interval  of  quiet  and  lonesomeness  at 
the  Kottbuss  Gate,  there  appeared,  first  far  down  the 
street,  then  approaching  nearer  and  nearer,  a  solemn  pro- 
cession. Foremost  staggered  the  chief  burgomaster,  Von 
Kircheisen,  in  full  uniform,  adorned  with  his  golden 
chain,  which  rustled  as  it  rose  and  sank  with  his  hurried, 
feverish  respiration.  He  was  followed  by  the  second  bur- 
gomaster, with  the  Town  Council,  and  deputation  of  mer- 
chants, headed  by  Gotzkowsky.  With  solemn,  serious 
air,  these  gentlemen  took  up  their  position  at  the  gate. 

The  chief  burgomaster  then  beckoned  Gotzkowsky 
to  his  side.  "  Stand  by  me,  my  friend,"  said  he,  with  a 
groan,  and  offering  his  hand  to  Gotzkowsky  with  a 
dismal  air.  "  I  am  suffering  terribly,  and  even  the  two 
bottles  of  Johannisberger  are  not  sufficient  to  inspire 
me  with  courage.  Is  it  not  terrible  that  the  honorable 
Council  should  be  obliged  to  attend  in  person?  It  is  an 
unheard-of  indignity! " 

"  Not  only  for  you,  but  for  the  Berlin  citizen  is  the 
insult  equally  great,"  said  Gotzkowsky. 

Herr  von  Kircheisen  shook  his  head  in  a  most  melan- 
choly manner.  "  Yes,"  said  he,  "  but  the  Berlin  citizen 
does  not  feel  it  so  deeply.  It  does  not  affect  his  honor 
as  it  does  that  of  the  magistracy." 

Gotzkowsky  smiled  scornfully.  "  Do  you  think," 
asked  he,  "  that  the  magistrates  possess  a  different  kind 
of  honor  from  that  of  any  citizen  of  the  town?  The 
sense  of  honor  is  keener  among  the  people  than  it  is 
among  the  noblest  lords." 


THE   MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN. 

The  chief  burgomaster  frowned.  "  These  are  very 
proud  words,"  replied  he,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoul- 
ders. 

"Pride  belongs  to  the  citizen!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky. 
"  But  believe  me,  noble  sir,  my  heart  to-day  is  not  as 
proud  as  my  words.  It  is  sore  with  pain  and  grief  over 
our  deep,  unmerited  degradation." 

"  Silence,  silence!  "  whispered  the  chief  magistrate, 
leaning  tremblingly  on  Gotzkowsky's  arm.  He  heard 
a  noise  behind  the  closed  gates,  and  his  mind  misgave 
him  that  the  dreaded  enemy  was  at  hand. 

Suddenly  there  sounded  on  the  other  side  of  the  walls 
the  loud  notes  of  a  trumpet,  and  the  warder  hastened 
to  throw  open  the  gate.  A  rare  and  motley  mixture  of 
Russian  uniforms  now  came  in  sight.  There  were  seen 
Cossacks,  with  their  small  horses  and  sharp  lances;  body- 
guards, with  their  gold-adorned  uniforms;  hussars,  in 
their  jackets  trimmed  with  costly  furs,  all  crowding  in 
in  confused  tumult  and  with  deafening  screams  and 
yells,  that  contrasted  strangely  with  the  silence  inside 
the  gates,  with  the  noiseless,  deserted  streets,  the 
closed  windows  of  the  houses,  whose  inhabitants  scorned 
to  be  witnesses  to  the  triumphal  entry  of  the  ens^ry. 
Only  the  ever-curious,  ever-sight-loving,  always-thought- 
less populace,  to  whom  the  honor  has  at  times  been  ac- 
corded of  being  called  "  the  sovereign  people,"  only  this 
populace  had  hurried  hither  from  all  the  streets  of  Ber- 
lin to  see  the  entry  of  the  Russians,  and  to  hurrah  to  the 
conqueror,  provided  he  paraded  right  handsomely  and 
slowly  in.  And  now  a  deep  silence  took  place  in  the 
ranks  of  the  enemy;  the  crowd  opened  and  formed  a 
lane,  through  which  rode  the  Russian  General  Bach- 
mann  and  his  staff.  As  he  reached  the  gate  he  drew  in 
his  horse  and  asked,  in  a  loud,  sonorous  voice,  in  French, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  145 

whether  the  magistrates  and  deputation  of  merchants 
were  present. 

The  chief  magistrate  felt  unable  to  answer;  his  knees 
tottered  and  his  teeth  chattered  convulsively.  He  could 
only  wag  his  head  in  silence  and  point  with  trembling 
hand  to  his  companions. 

"  Is  the  merchant,  John  Gotzkowsky,  one  of  your 
deputation  ?  "  asked  the  general. 

Gotzkowsky  stepped  out  of  the  crowd  and  approached 
the  general  with  a  proud  step.  "  I  am  he,  sir." 

"  I  am  glad  to  meet  you,"  said  the  general,  with  a 
gracious  smile.  "  I  bring  you  greetings  from  General 
Sievers.  He  commissioned  and  ordered  me  to  show  you 
all  possible  favor.  If  I  can  be  of  service  to  you  in  any 
possible  way,  pray  command  me.  I  am  General  von 
Bachmann,  and  during  our  presence  here  have  been  ap- 
pointed to  the  command  of  Berlin." 

"Are  you  a  friend  of  the  noble  Sievers?"  cried 
Gotzkowsky,  his  countenance  beaming  with  pleasure. 
"  Oh,  then,  I  need  fear  nothing  for  this  unfortunate 
town,  for  only  a  noble,  high-minded  man  can  be  a  friend 
of  Sievers.  You  will  have  pity  on  our  distress!  " 

"  Tell  me  wherein  I  can  serve  you,  and  how  I  can 
oblige  you;  my  word  has  much  influence  on  our  general- 
in-chief,  Count  Tottleben." 

Gotzkowsky  was  silent. 

"Beg  him  to  make  the  contribution  as  small  as  pos- 
sible," whispered  Kirch eisen  in  Gotzkowsky 's  ear. 

But  Gotzkowsky  took  no  notice  of  him.  He  fixed  his 
dark  eyes  on  the  general,  as  if  he  wished  to  read  his  soul. 

"  Speak  out,"  said  the  general.  "  If  it  is  possible, 
your  wish  shall  be  granted." 

"  "Well  then,  general,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  "  this  is  my 
request:  Spare  the  poor  and  needy  of  this  town.  Order 


146  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

your  soldiers  to  be  humane,  and  do  not  forget  mercy. 
Let  your  warriors  neither  murder  nor  plunder;  let 
them  not  deride  the  defenceless  and  conquered.  Give 
to  the  world  the  example  of  a  generous  and  noble  con- 
queror." 

The  general  looked  into  Gotzkowsky's  noble  counte- 
nance with  increasing  astonishment,  and  his  features  as- 
sumed a  more  benevolent  expression.  "  I  give  you  my 
word  that  your  petition  shall  be  granted,"  said  he;  "I 
will  give  my  soldiers  strict  orders,  and  woe  be  to  him  who 
does  not  obey  them!  But  you  have  spoken  for  others, 
and  I  would  like  to  oblige  you  personally.  Have  you 
no  request  to  make  for  yourself  ?  " 

"Oh,  yes,  indeed!"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  "I  beg  you 
to  allow  me  to  hasten  to  the  Council-hall  to  report  to  the 
elders  of  the  citizens  your  kind  promise." 

General  Bachmann  nodded  affably  to  him.  "  Has- 
ten, then,  and  return  soon." 

But  as  Gotzkowsky  turned  to  hasten  away,  Herr  von 
Kircheisen  seized  him  with  a  convulsive  grasp  and  drew 
him  back.  "  My  God!  you  are  not  going  to  leave  me?  " 
he  whined  out.  "  Only  think — " 

"  That  the  brave  and  noble  citizens  may  lay  the  gen- 
eral's words  as  a  balm  to  their  wounds — that  is  what  I 
am  thinking  of,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  tearing  himself 
loose  and  hurrying  away  with  rapid  strides. 

"  And  now  for  you,  most  worthy  burgomaster,"  said 
General  Bachmann,  sternly,  "your  name,  if  you 
please?" 

Yon  Kircheisen  looked  at  him  gloomily,  but  made  no 
answer. 

The  general  repeated  his  question  in  a  louder  and 
sterner  voice,  but  the  burgomaster  still  maintained  the 
same  obstinate  silence. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  147 

"  Have  you,  by  some  unlucky  chance,  forgotten  your 
name,  sir?"  asked  the  general  with  a  lowering  brow. 

The  angry,  piercing  look  he  fastened  on  him,  seemed 
to  awaken  the  burgomaster  from  his  lethargy. 

"  My  name  is  Kircheisen,  Von  Kircheisen,"  stam- 
mered he,  with  a  heavy  tongue. 

"  We  came  as  conquerors,  sir,"  said  General  Bach- 
mann;  "  and  it  is  usual  for  conquerors  to  dictate  their 
terms  before  they  enter  a  captured  city.  In  the  name 
of  our  general,  Count  Tottleben,  I  have  to  communi- 
cate to  you  what  sum  we  demand  from  you  as  a  war  con- 
tribution. This  demand  amounts  to  four  millions  of 
dollars  in  good  money." 

The  burgomaster  stared  at  the  general  with  glazed 
eyes,  broke  out  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  staggered  back  on 
the  wall  of  the  gate-warder's  house. 

"  I  implore  you,  collect  yourself,"  whispered  the  sec- 
ond burgomaster,  as  he  endeavored  to  support  the  reel- 
ing, staggering  chief.  "  Eemember  our  weal  or  woe 
depends  upon  you! " 

Von  Kircheisen  grinned  an  idiotic  laugh.  "  Four 
millions  of  dollars! "  screamed  he  aloud.  "  Four  mil- 
lions of  dollars!  Hurrah!  hurrah  for  the  Eussians!  " 

The  countenance  of  the  general  became  still  more 
threatening,  and  an  angry  light  flashed  from  his  eye. 
"  Do  you  dare  to  mock  me?  "  asked  he,  in  a  harsh  tone. 
"Beware,  sir;  and  remember  that  you  are  the  con- 
quered, and  in  our  power.  I  demand  from  you  a  de- 
cided answer.  You  understand  my  demand,  do  you 
not?  " 

But  still  he  answered  not.  He  stared  at  General 
Bachmann  with  a  vacant  smile,  and  his  head  wagged 
from  side  to  side  like  the  pendulum  of  a  clock. 

"  This  is  disgraceful  conduct,"  cried  the  general, 


148  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

"  conduct  which  does  little  honor  to  the  chief  magistrate 
of  Berlin.  But  I  warn  you,  sir,  to  beware!  I  have 
promised  the  poor  and  suffering  my  protection,  but  I 
well  know  how  to  punish  those  who  abuse  our  mag- 
nanimity. If  you  do  not  answer  me  this  time,  sir,  by 
Heaven  I  will  have  you  carried  off  under  arrest  and  let  a 
court-martial  pronounce  judgment  on  you! " 

The  chief  magistrate  continued  dumb.  The  pale 
and  terror-stricken  countenances  of  those  present  were 
turned  toward  him.  The  members  of  the  Council  im- 
plored and  besought  him  to  put  aside  this  unnatural 
stubbornness. 

Von  Kircheisen  answered  their  pleadings  with  a 
loud-sounding  laugh.  He  then  stared  at  the  general, 
his  features  worked  and  struggled,  writhed,  and  finally 
he  opened  his  mouth. 

"  Ah!  God  be  praised,  he  is  going  to  speak/'  cried 
the  second  burgomaster. 

But  no,  he  did  not  speak;  he  only  distorted  his  face. 
A  cry  of  dismay  sounded  from  the  lips  of  the  deputation, 
a  cry  of  anger  from  the  Eussian  general,  who,  turning  to 
his  adjutant,  ordered  him  immediately  to  arrest  the  bur- 
gomaster and  carry  him  off.  And  now  there  arose  an  in- 
describable scene  of  confusion  and  terror.  Pale  with 
fright,  the  Council  and  deputation  of  merchants  had 
nocked  around  Von  Kircheisen  to  protect  him  from  the 
advancing  soldiers  who  sought  to  arrest  him,  while  he,  in 
the  midst  of  all  the  horror  and  tumult,  continued  to  gig- 
gle and  make  grimaces.  The  enraged  soldiery  had  already 
commenced  to  push  aside  Kircheisen's  defenders  with 
blows  from  the  butts  of  their  muskets,  when  a  man  made 
his  way  through  the  crowd.  It  was  Gotzkowsky,  who, 
with  a  loud  and  full  voice,  demanded  the  cause  of  this 
singular  uproar.  A  hundred  voices  were  ready  to  answer 


THE   MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  149 

him,  and  explain  the  scene  in  confused,  unintelligible 
jargon. 

But  General  Bachmann  beckoned  him  to  his  side. 
"  Tell  me,  sir,  is  this  chief  burgomaster  a  fool  or  a  drunk- 
ard, or  is  he,  indeed,  so  demented  as  to  intend  to 
mock  us?  >: 

As  Gotzkowsky  looked  at  the  deathly  pale,  convulsed 
countenance  of  the  magistrate,  who  renewed  his  shrill, 
screeching  laugh,  he  comprehended  the  racking  and  ter- 
rible torture  which  the  unfortunate  man  was  suffering. 
He  hastened  to  him,  seized  him  by  the  arm,  and  led  the 
tottering  figure  toward  the  general. 

"  This  man  is  neither  a  fool  nor  a  madman,  your 
excellency;  suffering  has  robbed  him  of  speech,  and  he 
laughs,  not  in  derision,  but  from  the  convulsion  of 
intense  sorrow." 

And  as  the  offended  and  angry  general  would  not 
believe  him,  and  commanded  his  soldiers  anew  to  arrest 
the  burgomaster,  and  the  soldiers  with  renewed  rage 
pressed  on  him,  Gotzkowsky  placed  himself  before  him, 
and  protected  him  with  his  proud  and  respect-inspiring 
person. 

"  General  Bachmann,"  cried  he,  warmly,  "  I  remind 
you  of  your  oath.  You  vowed  to  me  to  protect  the 
suffering.  Well,  then,  this  man  is  a  sufferer,  a  sick 
man.  I  demand,  from  the  noble  friend  of  General  Siev- 
ers,  that  he  have  compassion  on  the  sick  man,  and  allow 
him  to  be  escorted  safely  and  unmolested  to  his 
house." 

"  Can  you  give  me  your  word  that  this  man  did  not 
act  thus  out  of  arrogance? "  asked  the  general,  in  a 
milder  tone;  "are  you  convinced  that  he  is  sick?" 

"I  swear  to  you,  please  your  excellency,  that  the 
chief  magistrate  of  Berlin  has  never  been  a  healthy  man; 


150  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

that,  for  many  years,  he  has  been  subject  to  fits  of  con- 
vulsive laughter." 

General  Bachmann  smiled.  "  This  is  an  unfortu- 
nate disease  for  the  chief  magistrate  of  a  city/'  said  he, 
"  and  it  seems  to  me  as  if  the  citizens  of  Berlin  did 
wrong  in  choosing  for  their  burgomaster  a  man  who 
laughs  and  cries  indifferently,  and  to  whom  the  misfor- 
tunes of  his  fellow-citizens  apparently  serves  only  for 
a  joke.  But  you  reminded  me  of  my  promise,  and  you 
shall  see  that  I  will  keep  it." 

He  beckoned  to  his  soldiers,  and  ordered  them  to 
fetch  a  litter  on  which  to  carry  the  sick  burgomaster 
home.  He  then  turned,  with  a  smile,  to  Gotzkowsky, 
and  said:  "  Sir,  the  Council  of  Berlin  have  cause  to  be 
grateful  to  you;  you  have  saved  their  chief  from  death." 

Herr  von  Kircheisen  did  not  laugh  now.  His  fea- 
tures jerked  and  distorted  themselves  still,  but  a  stream 
of  tears  gushed  from  his  eyes. 

With  an  unspeakable  expression  he  seized  Gotzkow- 
sky's  hand,  and  pressed  it  to  his  lips,  then  sank  uncon- 
scious in  the  arms  of  his  deliverer. 


CHAPTEK   HI. 

THE  RUSSIAN,   THE   SAXON,  AND  THE   ATJSTBIAN,  IN 
BERLIN. 

BERLIN  was  now  given  up  to  the  enemy,  and  through 
ihe  once  cheerful  and  pleasant  streets  could  be  heard 
nothing  but  screams  and  shrieks  of  terror,  mingled  with 
the  wild  curses  and  boisterous  laughter  of  the  conqueror, 
who,  not  satisfied  with  attacking  the  trembling  inhabi- 
tants to  rob  them  of  their  possessions  and  property,  ill 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  151 

treated  them  out  of  sheer  cruelty,  and  took  delight  in 
hearing  their  screams  and  looking  at  the  contortions 
caused  by  pain. 

And  who  was  this  enemy,  who,  in  scorn  of  all  human- 
ity and  civilization,  tortured  the  unfortunate  and  hunted 
them  down? 

They  were  not  Kussians,  nor  wild  hordes  of  Cossacks. 
They  were  Austrians  and  Saxons,  who,  robbing  and 
plundering,  murdering  and  destroying,  violating  and 
burning,  rushed  through  Berlin,  filling  all  the  inhabi- 
tants with  terror  and  alarm. 

General  Bachmann  kept  faithfully  the  promise  he 
had  made  to  Gotzkowsky,  and  the  Russian  army  at  first 
not  only  preserved  the  strictest  discipline,  but  even  pro- 
tected the  inhabitants  against  the  violence  of  the  Aus- 
trians and  Saxons. 

The  terrified  citizens  had  one  powerful  and  benefi- 
cent friend — this  was  John  Gotzkowsky.  Yielding  to 
his  urgent  entreaty,  General  von  Bachmann's  adjutant, 
Von  Brinck,  had  taken  up  his  quarters  in  his  house, 
and  by  his  assistance  and  his  own  influence  with  the 
general,  Gotzkowsky  was  enabled  to  afford  material  aid 
to  all  Berlin.  For  those  citizens  who  were  able  to  pay 
the  soldiers  he  procured  a  Russian  safeguard,  and  more 
than  once  this  latter  protected  the  inhabitants  of  the 
houses  against  the  vandalism  of  the  Austrians  and 
Saxons. 

Contrary  to  the  wish  of  the  Russians,  the  Austrians 
had  forced  themselves  into  the  city,  and,  in  spite  of  the 
terms  of  the  capitulation  agreed  upon  with  the  Russians, 
had  quartered  themselves  upon  the  citizens,  from  whom, 
with  the  most  savage  cruelty  and  threats  of  ingenious 
torture,  they  extorted  all  the  gold  and  jewels  they  pos- 
sessed. 


152  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Berlin  was  now  the  open  camping-ground  of  Croats, 
and  Austrian  hussars.,  and  Uussian  Cossacks,  and  all 
minds  were  filled  with  dread  and  anxiety. 

It  is  true  that  even  the  Cossacks  forgot  the  strict  dis- 
cipline which  had  been  commanded  them,  and  entered 
the  houses,  robbing  and  compelling  the  inhabitants,  by 
blows  of  the  knout,  to  give  them  all  they  wanted.  But 
yet  they  were  less  cruel  than  the  Saxons,  less  barbarous 
than  the  Austrians,  who,  with  scoffing  and  derision, 
committed  the  greatest  atrocities.  Indeed,  it  was  only 
necessary  to  complain  to  the  Eussian  general  in  order 
to  obtain  justice  immediately,  and  have  the  Cossacks 
punished.  Eight  of  them  were  strung  up  in  one  day  at 
the  guard-house  on  the  New  Market  square,  as  a  warning 
and  example  to  the  others,  and  expiated  their  robberies 
by  a  summary  death.  "  But  with  the  Austrians  and  Sax- 
ons it  was  the  officers  themselves  who  instigated  the  sol- 
diers to  acts  of  revolting  barbarity,  and  who,  forgetful 
of  all  humanity,  by  their  laughter  and  applause  excited 
their  subordinates  to  fresh  ill-treatment  of  the  inhabi- 
tants. Disregarding  the  capitulation,  and  listening  to 
their  national  enmity,  and  their  love  of  plunder,  they 
pressed  forward  with  "wild  screams  into  the  royal  stables, 
driving  away  the  safeguard  of  four-and-twenty  men, 
which  General  von  Tottleben  had  placed  there  for  their 
protection,  and  with  shameless  insolence  defiling  the 
Prussian  coat-of-arms  pictured  on  the  royal  carriages. 
They  then  drew  them  out  into  the  open  street,  and,  after 
they  had  stripped  them  of  their  ornaments  and  decora- 
tions, piled  them  up  in  a  great  heap  and  set  them  on  fire, 
in  order  to  add  to  the  fright  and  terror  of  the  bewildered 
citizens  by  the  threatening  danger  of  conflagration. 

High  blazed  the  flames,  consuming  greedily  these 
carriages  which  had  once  borne  kings  and  princes.  The 


THE  MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN.  153 

screams  and  fright  of  the  inmates  of  the  nearest  houses, 
and  the  crackling  of  the  window-glass  broken  by  the 
heat,  were  drowned  by  the  joyous  shouts  of  the  Aus- 
trians, who  danced  round  the  tire  with  wild  delight,  and 
accompanied  the  roaring  of  the  flames  with  insulting 
and  licentious  songs.  And  the  iire  seemed  only  to 
awaken  their  inventive  powers,  and  excite  them  to  fresh 
deeds  of  vandalism.  After  the  fire  had  burnt  out,  and 
only  a  heap  of  ashes  told  of  what  were  once  magnificent 
royal  vehicles,  the  Austrians  rushed  back  again  into  the 
building  with  terrific  outcry,  to  the  apartments  of  the 
royal  master  of  the  horse,  Schwerin,  in  order  to  build 
a  new  bonfire  with  his  furniture,  and  fill  their  pockets 
with  his  gold  and  silver  ware. 

In  the  royal  stalls  a  great  uproar  arose,  as  they 
fought  with  each  other  for  the  horses  that  were  there. 
The  strongest  leaped  on  them  and  rode  off  furiously,  to 
carry  into  other  neighborhoods  the  terror  and  dismay 
which  marked  the  track  of  the  Austrians  through  Berlin. 
Even  the  hospitals  were  not  safe  from  their  brutal  rage. 
They  tore  the  sick  from  their  beds,  drove  them  with 
scoffs  and  insults  into  the  streets,  cut  up  their  beds,  and 
covered  them  over  with  the  feathers.  And  all  this  was 
committed  not  by  wild  barbarians,  but  by  the  regular 
troops  of  a  civilized  state,  by  Austrians,  who  were  spurred 
on,  by  their  hatred  of  the  Prussians,  to  deeds  of  rude 
cruelty  and  beastly  barbarity.  And  this  unlucky  na- 
tional hatred,  which  possessed  the  Austrian  and  made 
him  forgetful  of  all  humanity,  was  communicated,  like 
an  infectious  plague,  to  the  Saxons,  and  transformed 
these  warriors,  who  were  celebrated  for  being,  next  to 
the  Prussians,  the  most  orderly  and  best  disciplined, 
into  rude  Jack  Ketches  and  iconoclastic  Vandals. 

In  the  royal  pleasure-palace  at  Charlottenburg.  where 


154:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Briihl's  (Saxon)  dragoons  had  taken  up  their  quarters 
by  force,  they  set  up  a  new  species  of  dragoonade,  which 
was  directed  not  so  much  against  the  living  as  against 
marble  statues  and  the  sacred  treasures  of  art.  All  the 
articles  of  splendor,  brilliancy,  and  luxury  which  had 
been  heaped  up  here,  every  thing  which  the  royal  love 
of  the  fine  arts  had  collected  of  what  was  beautiful 
and  rare,  was  sacrificed  to  their  raging  love  of  destruc- 
tion. Gilded  furniture,  Venetian  mirrors,  large  porce- 
lain vases  from  Japan,  were  smashed  to  pieces.  The 
silk  tapestry  was  torn  from  the  walls  in  shreds,  the  doors 
inlaid  with  beautiful  wood-mosaic  were  broken  up  with 
clubs,  the  most  masterly  and  costly  paintings  were  cut 
in  ribbons  with  knives.  To  be  sure,  it  sometimes  hap- 
pened that  the  officers  rescued  from  the  soldiers  some 
costly  vase,  some  rare  treasure  or  painting,  and  saved  it 
from  destruction,  but  this  was  not  to  save  the  King  of 
Prussia's  property,  but  to  appropriate  it  to  themselves, 
and  carry  it  home  with  them. 

Even  the  art-collection  of  Count  Polignac,  embrac- 
ing the  most  splendid  and  rare  treasures  of  art  in  the 
palace  of  Charlottenburg,  did  not  escape  this  mania  of 
destruction.  This  collection,  containing  among  other 
things  the  most  beautiful  Greek  statues,  had  been  pur- 
chased in  Eome  by  Gotzkowsky,  and  had  afforded  the 
king  peculiar  gratification,  and  was  a  source  of  much 
enjoyment  to  him.  In  the  eyes  of  some  Saxon  officers, 
to  whom  this  fact  was  known,  it  was  sufficient  reason  for 
its  condemnation.  They  themselves  led  the  most  violent 
and  destructive  of  their  soldiers  into  the  halls  where 
these  magnificent  treasures  were  exposed,  even  helped 
them  to  break  the  marble  statues,  to  dash  them  down 
from  their  pedestals,  to  hew  off  their  heads,  arms,  and 
legs,  and  even  carried  their  systematic  malice  so  far 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  155 

as  to  order  the  soldiers  to  grind  into  powder  the  frag- 
ments, so  as  to  prevent  any  restoration  of  the  statues  at 
a  subsequent  period. 

The  unfortunate  inhabitants  of  Charlottenburg  wit- 
nessed all  this  abomination  that  was  perpetrated  in  the 
royal  palace  with  fear  and  trembling,  and  in  order  to 
save  their  own  persons  and  property  from  similar  out- 
rage, they  offered  the  enemy  a  contribution  of  fifteen 
thousand  dollars.  The  Saxons  accepted  the  money,  but, 
regardless  of  every  obligation  usually  considered  sacredly 
binding,  they  only  became  more  savage  and  ferocious. 
With  yells  of  rage  they  rushed  into  the  houses,  and, 
when  the  money  they  demanded  was  refused  them,  they 
stripped  the  men  of  their  clothes,  lashed  them  until  the 
blood  flowed,  or  cruelly  wounded  or  maimed  them  with 
sabre-cuts;  and  when  the  women  fled  from  them,  they  fol- 
lowed them  up,  and  forced  them  by  brutal  ill-treatment 
to  yield  themselves.  No  house  in  Charlottenburg  escaped 
being  plundered;  and  so  cruel  were  the  tortures  which  the 
inhabitants  suffered,  that  four  of  the  unfortunate  men 
died  a  miserable  death  at  the  hands  of  the  Saxon  soldiers. 

They  were  Germans  who  waged  against  their  brother 
Germans,  against  their  own  countrymen,  a  brutality 
and  barbarous  love  of  destruction  almost  unequalled  in 
the  annals  of  modern  history.  Consequently  it  seemed 
but  natural  that  the  Eussians  should  be  excited  by  such 
examples  of  barbarity,  so  unstintedly  set  them  by  the 
Austrians  and  Saxons.  No  wonder  that  they,  too,  at  last 
began  to  rob  and  plunder,  to  break  into  houses  at  night, 
and  carry  off  women  and  maidens  by  force,  in  order  to 
have  them  released  next  day  by  heavy  ransom;  and  that 
even  the  severe  punishments,  inflicted  on  those  whom 
the  people  had  the  courage  to  complain  of  to  the  gen- 
erals, lost  their  terror,  and  were  no  restraint  on  these 


156  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

sons  of  the  steppes  and  ice-fields,  led  away  as  they  were 
by  the  other  ruffians. 

Two  hundred  and  eighty-two  houses  were  destroyed 
and  thoroughly  plundered  in  Berlin  by  the  Austrians; 
the  Saxons  had  devastated  the  royal  palace  in  Charlot- 
tenburg,  and  the  whole  town.  Should  not  the  Russians 
also  leave  a  memorial  of  their  vandalism?  They  did 
so  in  Schb'nhausen,  the  pleasure-palace  of  the  consort 
of  Frederick  the  Great,  who  had  left  it  a  few  days  previ- 
ous, by  express  command  of  the  king,  to  take  up  her 
residence  in  Magdeburg.  Eight  Eussian  hussars  forced 
themselves  into  the  palace,  and,  with  terrible  threats, 
demanded  the  king's  plate.  Only  the  castellan  and  his 
wife,  and  a  few  of  the  royal  servants,  had  been  left  be- 
hind to  protect  the  place,  and  the  only  answer  they  could 
make  to  the  furious  soldiers  was,  that  the  booty  which 
they  were  in  search  of  had  been  carried  with  the  royal 
party  to  Magdeburg.  This  information  excited  their 
fury  to  the  highest  pitch.  Like  the  Saxon  dragoons  of 
Charlottenburg,  they  devastated  the  Schonhausen  pal- 
ace, stripped  the  castellan  and  his  wife,  and,  with  shouts 
of  wild  laughter,  whipped  them  and  pinched  their  flesh 
with  red-hot  tongs.  And,  as  if  the  sight  of  these  bloody 
and  torn  human  bodies  had  only  increased  their  desire 
for  blood  and  torture,  they  then  attacked  the  two  ser- 
vants, stripped  them  of  their  clothes,  cut  one  to  pieces 
like  a  beast,  and  threw  the  other  on  the  red-hot  coals, 
roasting  him  alive,  as  formerly  the  warriors  of  her  Most 
Christian  Majesty  of  Spain  did  those  whom,  in  the  pride 
of  their  civilization,  they  denominated  "the  wild 
heathen."  * 

*  The  account  of  all  these  cruelties  and  this  vandalism  is  veri- 
fied in  the  original,  by  reference  to  Von  Archenholz:  "History  of 
the  Seven  Years'  War,"  pp.  194-198.— TRANSLATOR. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  157 

CHAPTEE   IV. 

THE    CADETS. 

THE  day  following  the  occupation  of  Berlin,  a 
strange  and  singular  procession  moved  down  the  Linden 
Street  through  the  Brandenburg  Gate,  and  took  the  road 
to  Charlottenburg.  BriihFs  dragoons  and  De  Lacy's 
chasseurs  rode  on  each  side  of  the  line,  which  would  have 
excited  laughter,  if  pity  and  sorrow  had  not  overcome 
the  comical  element.  It  was  a  procession  of  children 
decked  in  uniform,  and  having  nothing  military  about 
them  but  their  apparel,  nothing  manly  but  the  dress- 
sword  at  their  side. 

This  singular  little  regiment  was  the  "  Corps  of 
Cadets/'  which  had  been  made  prisoners  of  war  by  the 
Austrians  and  Saxons. 

The  commandant,  Von  Rochow,  did  not  imagine 
that  the  enemy  would  carry  his  hard-heartedness  to  such 
an  extent  as  to  consider  these  lads  of  tender  age  as  part 
of  the  garrison,  and  make  them  prisoners  of  war  in  con- 
sequence. None  of  these  boys  exceeded  the  age  of  twelve 
years  (the  larger  and  older  ones  having  been  drafted  into 
the  army  to  supply  the  want  of  officers),  and  he  pre- 
sumed that  their  very  helplessness  and  weakness  would 
be  their  security,  and  therefore  had  omitted  to  mention 
them  specially  in  the  surrender.  But  the  conqueror 
had  no  compassion  on  these  little  children  in  uniform, 
and  pronounced  them  prisoners  of  war.  Even  Lilipu- 
tian  warriors  might  be  dangerous!  Remember  the  pangs 
suffered  by  Gulliver,  as,  lying  quietly  on  the  ground, 
he  was  suddenly  awakened  by  a  violent  discharge  poured 
into  him  from  behind  the  high  grass  by  the  Liliputians. 
11 


158  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

To  be  sure  their  weapons  were  only  armed  with  needles 
• — whence  we  may  infer  that  the  Liliputians  are  the 
original  inventors  of  the  modern  Prussian  needle-per- 
cussion rifles — but,  one  can  be  killed  by  needle-pricks. 
Count  De  Lacy  feared,  perhaps,  the  needle  weapons  of 
the  little  Liliputian  cadets,  and  treated  the  poor,  deli- 
cate, tender  children  as  if  they  were  tough  old  veterans, 
accustomed  to  all  the  hardships  and  privations  of  war. 
With  coarse  abuse  and  blows  from  the  butt  of  the  mus- 
ket, they  were  driven  out  into  the  highway,  and  com- 
pelled to  travel  on  the  soft,  muddy  roads  without  cloaks, 
notwithstanding  the  severe  weather,  and  only  the  short 
jackets  of  their  uniforms.  Heart-rending  was  the  wail 
of  the  poor  little  ones  from  whom  the  war  had  taken 
their  fathers,  and  poverty  their  mothers — torn  from 
their  home,  the  refuge  of  their  orphaned  childhood,  to 
be  driven  like  a  flock  of  bleating  lambs  out  into  the 
desert  wilderness  of  life. 

And  when  their  feet  grew  weary,  when  their  little 
bodies,  unaccustomed  to  fatigue.,  gave  way,  they  were 
driven  on  with  blows  from  sabres  and  the  butts  of  mus- 
kets. When  they  begged  for  a  piece  of  bread,  or  a  drop 
of  water  for  their  parched  lips,  they  were  laughed  at, 
and,  instead  of  water,  were  told  to  drink  their  own  tears, 
which  ran  in  streams  down  their  childish  cheeks.  They 
had  already  marched  the  whole  day  without  food  or  re- 
freshment of  any  kind,  and  they  could  hardly  drag  their 
bleeding  feet  along.  With  eyes  bright  with  fever,  and 
parched  tongues,  they  still  wandered  on,  looking  in  the 
distance  for  some  friendly  shelter,  some  refreshing 
spring. 

At  nightfall  the  little  cadets  were  camped  in  an  open 
field,  on  the  wet  ground.  At  first,  they  begged  for  a 
little  food,  a  crust  of  bread;  but  when  they  saw  that 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  159 

their  sufferings  gave  pleasure  to  the  dragoons,  and  that 
their  groans  were  to  them  like  a  pleasant  song,  they 
were  silent,  and  the  spirit  of  their  fathers  reigned  upper- 
most in  the  breasts  of  these  little,  forsaken,  trembling 
lads.  They  dried  their  eyes,  and  kept  their  complaints 
in  their  little  trembling  hearts. 

"  We  will  not  cry  any  more,"  said  little  Ramin, 
who,  though  only  twelve  years  of  age,  was  yet  the  oldest 
of  the  captives,  and  recognized  as  their  captain  and 
leader.  "  We  will  not  cry  any  more,  for  our  tears 
give  pleasure  to  our  enemies.  Let  us  be  cheerful,  and 
that  perhaps  will  vex  them.  To  spite  them,  and  show 
how  little  we  think  of  our  hunger,  let  us  sing  a  jolly 
song." 

"  Come  on,  let  us  do  it!  "  cried  the  boys.  "  What 
song  shall  we  sing?  " 

"  Prince  Eugene,"  cried  young  Ramin;  and  imme- 
diately with  his  childish  treble  struck  up  "  Prince  Eu- 
gene, the  noble  knight." 

And  all  the  lads  joined  in  with  a  sort  of  desperate 
enthusiasm,  and  the  song  of  the  noble  knight  rose  from 
their  young  lips  like  a  peal  of  rejoicing. 

But  gradually  one  little  trembling  voice  after  another 
fell,  by  degrees  the  song  grew  lower  and  shriller,  and  be- 
came lost  in  a  trembling  whisper;  then  it  would  rise  into 
an  unnatural  and  terrified  scream,  or  sink  into  a  whin- 
ing sob  or  trembling  wail. 

Suddenly  little  Ramin  stopped,  and  a  cry  of  pain, 
like  the  sound  of  a  snapped  string,  burst  from  his  breast. 
"  I  cannot  sing  any  more,"  sighed  he.  "  Hunger  is  kill- 
ing me."  And  he  sank  down  on  his  knees,  and  raised 
his  little  arms  beseechingly  to  one  of  the  Austrian  sol- 
diers, who  was  marching  beside  him,  comfortably  con- 
suming a  roast  chicken. 


1GO  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

"  Oh!  give  me  a  bit  of  bread,  only  a  mouthful,  to 
keep  me  from  starving  to  death." 

"  Have  pity  on  us,  do  not  let  us  starve!  " 

With  similar  piteous  lamentations,  the  whole  corps 
of  trembling,  weeping,  starving  little  cadets  threw  them- 
selves on  their  knees,  and  filled  the  air  with  their  cries 
and  prayers. 

"  Well,  if  you  positively  insist  upon  eating,  you  shall 
have  something  to  appease  your  hunger,"  said  the  officer 
who  commanded  the  chasseurs,  and  he  whispered  a  few 
words  to  his  corporal,  who  received  them  with  a  loud 
laugh,  and  then  rode  off. 

"  Now,  be  quiet,  and  wait,"  commanded  the  Aus- 
trian officer.  "  I  have  sent  the  corporal  and  some 
soldiers  into  the  village  to  get  food  for  you.  Only 
wait  now,  and  be  satisfied."  And  the  children  dried 
their  eyes,  and  comforted  each  other  with  encouraging 
words. 

With  what  impatience,  what  painful  longing,  did  they 
look  forward  to  the  promised  food!  How  they  thanked 
God,  in  the  gladness  of  their  hearts,  that  He  had  had 
pity  on  them,  and  had  not  allowed  them  to  die  of 
hunger! 

They  all  seemed  revived,  and  strained  their  hopeful 
eyes  toward  the  quarter  whence  the  corporal  was  to  re- 
turn. And  now,  with  one  voice,  they  broke  out  into  a 
cry  of  joy;  they  had  espied  him  returning,  accompanied 
by  soldiers  who  seemed  to  be  bringing  a  heavy  load. 

They  approached  nearer  and  nearer.  "  Form  a 
ring,"  commanded  the  officer,  and  they  obeyed  in  expect- 
ant gladness;  and  around  the  thickly  crowded  ring  the 
Austrian  officers  and  the  troop  of  soldiers  took  their 
stand.  In  silent  waiting  stood  the  cadets,  and  their 
hearts  leaped  for  joy. 


THE   MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN.  161 

"  AtteDtioii!  your  dinner  is  coming,"  cried  the 
officer. 

The  ring  opened.  Ah!  now  the  corporal  and  the 
soldiers  are  going  to  bring  in  the  dinner. 

But  no!  The  dinner  came  walking  along  by  itself. 
With  a  dignified  step  it  marched  in  and  gave  utterance 
to  an  expressive  bleat.  It  was  a  live  sheep,  which  wan 
to  be  given  to  the  poor  lads  who  were  faint  from  hunger. 
An  outburst  of  boisterous  laughter  from  the  Austrian^ 
greeted  the  dignified  wether,  and  drowned  the  cries  of 
the  bitterly  disappointed  cadets. 

"A  sheep!"  they  cried,  "and  what  are  we  to  do 
with  it?  "-^-and  they  began  to  weep  afresh. 

"  Kill  him  and  roast  him!  "  jeered  the  officer.  "  You 
are  brave  soldiers.  Well,  you  will  only  have  to  do  what 
we  often  do  in  camp.  Be  your  own  cook  and  butler; 
none  of  us  will  help  you.  We  want  to  see  what  sort 
of  practical  soldiers  you  will  make,  and  whether  you 
are  as  good  hands  at  cooking  as  at  crying  and  blubber- 
ing." 

And  the  Austrians  folded  their  arms,  and  looked  on 
idly  'and  with  derisive  satisfaction  at  these  poor  children 
who  stood  there  with  their  heads  bowed  down  with  help- 
lessness and  grief. 

At  length  little  Eamin  arose.  His  eyes  glistened 
with  fierce  defiance,  and  an  expression  of  noble  cour- 
age illuminated  his  pale  countenance. 

"  If  the  sheep  belongs  to  us,"  said  he,  "  we  will  eat 
him." 

"But  he's  alive,"  cried  the  boys. 

"  We  will  kill  him,"  answered  the  little  fellow. 

"We?  we  ourselves?  We  are  no  butchers.  We 
have  never  done  such  a  thing!  " 

"  Have  we  ever  killed  a  man  ?  "  asked  Eamin,  rolling 


162  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

his  large  bright  eyes  around  the  circle  of  his  comrades. 
"  Have  we  ever  deprived  a  man  of  his  life?  " 

"  No! " 

"Well,  then,  we  will  have  it  yet  to  do!  We  hope 
to  be  able  to  kill  many  an  enemy,  and  to  do  that  we  will 
have  to  begin  with  some  one.  Let  us  make  believe,  then, 
that  this  wether  is  the  enemy,  and  that  we  have  to  at- 
tack him.  Now,  then,  down  upon  him!  " 

"  Eamin  is  right,"  cried  the  boys;  "  let  us  attack  the 
enemy." 

"  Attention!  "  commanded  Ramin. 

The  boys  drew  themselves  up  in  military  order  right 
opposite  the  bleating  sheep. 

"  Draw  swords! " 

In  the  twinkling  of  an  eye  they  had  drawn  their 
little  rapiers,  which  looked  more  like  penknives  than 
swords,  and  which  the  Austrians  had  left  to  their  little 
prisoners  of  war. 

"  One,  two,  three! "  commanded  the  little  Ramin. 
"Attention!  Forward!" 

Down  they  charged  upon  the  enemy,  who  was  stand- 
ing motionless,  with  staring  eyes,  bleating  loudly.  The 
Austrian  soldiers  roared  and  screamed  with  delight,  and 
confessed,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  it  was  the  best 
joke  in  the  world,  and  no  end  of  fun  to  see  these  poor 
boys  made  desperate  by  hunger. 

The  first  feat  of  arms  of  the  little  cadets  was  com- 
pleted, the  wether  was  slain.  But  now  came  the  ques- 
tion how  to  dress  him,  how  to  convert  the  dead  beast  into 
nice  warm  roast  meat. 

They  were  well  aware  that  none  of  the  laughing, 
mocking  soldiers  would  help  them,  and  therefore  they 
disdained  to  ask  for  help.  Wood,  a  roasting-pit,  and  a 
kettle  were  given  them — means  enough  to  prepare  a 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  163 

good  soup  and  roast.  But  how  to  begin  and  set  about 
it  they  themselves  hardly  knew.  But  gnawing  hunger 
made  them  inventive.  Had  they  not  often  at  home 
skinned  many  a  cunningly  caught  mole — had  they  not 
often  killed  and  drawn  a  rabbit?  The  only  difference 
was  that  the  sheep  was  somewhat  larger  than  a  mole  or 
a  rabbit. 

Finally,  after  much  toil  and  trouble,  and  under  the 
approving  laughter  of  the  spectators,  they  accomplished 
it.  The  meat  simmered  in  the  kettle,  watched  by  two 
cadets,  two  others  turning  the  spit.  The  work  was  done; 
the  sheep  was  converted  into  soup  and  roast. 

And  because  they  showed  themselves  so  industrious 
and  cheerful,  one  and  another  of  the  soldiers  softened 
their  hearts  and  threw  them  a  piece  of  bread  or  a  can- 
teen; and  the  poor  boys  accepted  these  alms  thrown  at 
them  with  humble  gratitude,  and  no  feeling  of  resent- 
ment or  defiance  remained  in  their  hearts,  for  hunger 
was  appeased;  but  appeased  only  for  the  moment — only 
to  encounter  new  sufferings,  renewed  hunger,  fresh 
mockeries.  For  onward,  farther  onward  must  they  wan- 
der. Every  now  and  then  one  of  them  sank  down,  beg- 
ging for  pity  and  compassion.  But  what  cared  the  sol- 
diers, who  only  saw  in  the  children  the  impersonation 
of  the  hated  enemy,  to  be  tortured  and  worried  to  death 
as  a  sport? 

More  than  twenty  of  these  little  cadets  succumbed 
to  the  sufferings  of  this  journey,  and  died  miserably,  for- 
saken and  alone,  on  the  high  road;  and  no  mother  was 
there  to  close  their  eyes,  no  father  to  lean  over  them  and 
bless  them  with  a  tear.  But  over  these  poor  martyr- 
children  watched  the  love  of  God,  and  lulled  them  to 
sleep  with  happy  dreams  and  gentle  fancies  about  their 
distant  homes,  their  little  sister  there,  or  the  beautiful 


164:  THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

garden  in  which  they  had  so  often  chased  butterflies  to- 
gether. And  amidst  such  fancies  and  smiling  memories 
they  dreamed  away  their  childish  souls,  beyond  the 
grave,  to  a  holy  and  happy  reawakening. 


CHAPTER    V. 

THE    EXPLOSION. 

GENERAL  VON  TOTTLEBEN  was  alone  in  his  chamber 
— at  least  he  had  no  visible  company;  but  two  invisible 
companions  were  there — Care  and  Sorrow.  They  whis- 
pered to  him  uncomfortable  and  melancholy  thoughts, 
making  his  countenance  serious  and  sad,  and  drawing 
deep  and  dark  lines  across  his  brow.  He  was  a  German, 
and  was  fighting  in  the  ranks  of  the  enemy  against  his 
German  fatherland.  Therein  lay  the  secret  of  his  care- 
worn features,  the  reading  of  the  suppressed  sighs;  the 
broken,  sorrowful  words  which  he  uttered,  as  with  folded 
arms  and  bowed  head  he  paced  up  and  down  his  room. 
He  was  a  German,  and  loved  his  country,  which  had  re- 
paid his  love  with  that  apathy  and  non-appreciation  that 
have  destroyed  and  killed  some  of  the  greatest  and 
noblest  men  of  Germany;  while  others- have  taken  refuge 
in  foreign  countries,  to  find  there  that  recognition  which 
was  denied  them  at  home.  General  von  Tottleben  was 
only  a  German — why,  then,  should  Germany  take  no- 
tice of  him?  Because  he  possessed  information,  talent, 
genius.  Germany  would  have  appreciated  these  if  Von 
Tottleben  had  been  a  foreigner;  but,  as  unfortunately 
he  was  only  a  German,  Germany  took  no  notice  of  him, 
and  compelled  him  to  seek  in  a  foreign  country  the  road 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  105 

to  fame  and  distinction.  He  had  gone  to  Russia.  There 
his  talents  had  been  prized  and  employed.  He  was  now 
a  general  in  the  Russian  army,  and  the  alliance  between 
Russia  and  Austria  compelled  him  to  tight  against  his 
own  country. 

But  the  Russian  general  still  preserved  his  German 
heart,  this  heart  so  strong  in  suffering,  so  unfaltering  in 
its  faith,  so  faithful  in  its  love,  so  great  in  hope,  humble 
in  its  obedience,  modest  in  its  desires;  this  German 
heart  of  his  was  the  cause  of  much  suffering  to  him,  for 
it  could  not  adapt  itself  to  his  Russian  instructions,  and 
despite  his  efforts  to  render  it  callous,  would  insist  upon 
overflowing  with  pity  and  sympathy.  He  loved  Berlin, 
for  in  this  city  he  had  passed  the  best  years  of  his  youth. 
And  now  he  was  called  on  to  act  as  a  cruel  tyrant, 
an  unfeeling  barbarian,  to  sow  broadcast  death  and 
destruction  in  this  city,  from  which  he  yearned  so  to  win 
a  little  love,  a  little  sympathy  for  her  rejected  son. 

But  now  his  German  heart  was  forced  into  silence 
by  the  exigencies  of  Russian  discipline,  and  the  general 
had  to  obey  the  orders  of  his  superior  officer,  General  von 
Fermore.  His  chief  had  ordered  him  to  exercise  the 
utmost  severity  and  harshness,  and  imposed  upon  him 
the  task  of  scourging  Berlin  like  a  demon  of  vengeance. 
And  yet  Berlin  had  committed  no  other  crime  than  that 
of  remaining  faithful  to  her  king,  and  of  not  wishing  to 
surrender  to  the  enemy. 

A  fresh  dispatch  had  just  arrived  from  General  von 
Fermore,  and  its  contents  had  darkened  the  brow  of 
Tottleben  with  anxious  care.  He  had  received  orders  to 
blow  up  the  arsenal  in  Berlin.  This  noble  and  hand- 
some building,  which  rose  in  proud  splendor  in  the  midst 
of  a  populous  town,  was  to  be  destroyed  without  refer- 
ence to  the-  fact  that  the  blowing  up  of  this  colossal 


166  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

edifice  would  scatter  death  and  ruin  throughout  unfor- 
tunate Berlin. 

"  I  will  not  do  it,"  said  he,  pacing  up  and  down  the 
room,  and  crushing  the  accursed  paper  which  brought 
the  cruel  order  in  his  clinched  hand.  "  I  cannot  be  such 
a  barbarian.  Fermore  may  command  me  to  do  bar- 
barous actions,  but  I  will  not  accept  such  commands! 
I  will  not  obey!  No  one  but  myself  knows  of  this  order. 
I  will  ignore  it.  The  Empress  Elizabeth  has  always  been 
very  gracious  toward  me,  and  will  forgive  me  for  not 
executing  an  order  which  certainly  never  proceeded 
from  her  own  kind  heart."  At  this  moment  the  door 
opened,  and  the  adjutant  entering,  announced  Count  de 
Lacy. 

Tottleben's  countenance  assumed  a  gloomy  expres- 
sion, and,  apwith  hasty  step  he  advanced  toward  the 
Austrian  general,  he  muttered  to  himself,  "  I  perceive 
the  bloodhounds  have  got  the  scent,  and  are  eager  for 
blood."  In  the  mean  time  Count  de  Lacy  approached 
him  with  a  friendly  and  gracious  smile.  He  seemed  not 
to  be  at  all  aware  that  Tottleben  did  not  accept  the 
hand  which  the  Austrian  general  held  out  to  him  with  a 
hearty  greeting. 

"  I  come  to  chat  for  a  short  quarter  of  an  hour  with 
your  excellency,"  said  Count  de  Lacy,  in  very  fluent 
German,  but  with  the  hard  foreign  accent  of  a  Hunga- 
rian. "  After  a  battle  won,  I  know  nothing  pleasanter 
than  to  recall  with  a  comrade  the  past  danger,  and  to 
revel  again  in  memory  the  excitement  of  the  fight." 

"  May  I  request  your  excellency  to  remember  that  the 
Austrians  cannot  count  the  conquest  of  Berlin  in  the  list 
of  their  victories,"  cried  Count  Tottleben,  with  a  sarcas- 
tic smile.  "It  was  the  Eussian  army  which  besieged 
Berlin,  and  Berlin  surrendered  to  us" 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  167 

"  You  are  very  kind  to  remind  me  of  it,"  said  Count 
de  Lacy,  with  his  unchangeable,  pleasant  smile.  "  In 
the  mean  time  may  I  request  a  more  particular  explana- 
tion than  this  polite  reminder?  " 

"  You  shall  have  it,  sir,"  cried  Tottleben,  passionate- 
ly. "  I  mean  to  say  that  Berlin  is  not  Charlottenburg, 
and  to  request  that  the  vandalism  which  the  Austrian 
troops  practised  there,  may  not  be  transferred  to  Berlin. 
Be  satisfied  with  the  booty  which  your  soldiers  stowed 
away  in  their  knapsacks  at  that  place,  and  have  the  kind- 
ness to  order  the  Austrian  army  to  learn  a  little  dis- 
cipline and  humanity  from  the  Russians." 

"From  the  Russians?"  asked  Count  de  Lacy,  with 
ironical  astonishment.  "  Truly  one  is  not  accustomed 
to  learn  humanity  from  that  quarter.  Does  your  excel- 
lency mean  to  say  that  the  Austrians  are  to  learn  good 
manners  from  the  Russians?  " 

"Yes,  from  the  Russians,"  replied  Tottleben — 
"  from  my  soldiers,  who  neither  plunder  nor  rob,  but 
bear  in  mind  that  they  are  soldiers,  and  not  thieves!  " 

"  Sir,"  cried  De  Lacy,  "  what  do  these  words  mean?  " 

"  They  mean  that  I  have  promised  my  protection  to 
the  people  of  Berlin,  and  that  I  am  prepared  to  afford  it 
to  them,  even  against  our  own  allies.  They  mean  that  I 
have  made  myself  sufficiently  strong  to  bid  you  defiance, 
sir,  and  to  defend  Berlin  against  the  cruelty  and  inhu- 
manity of  the  Austrian  army.  The  Russian  army  will 
compel  it  to  be  humane,  and  to  pause  in  the  cruel  rage 
with  which  they  have  desolated  unhappy  Germany." 

Count  de  Lacy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "What  is 
Germany  to  you,  and  why  do  you  feel  for  her?  "  asked 
he  jeeringly.  "  I  beg  you,  count,  let  us  not  speak  of 
Germany.  What  to  us  is  this  lachrymose,  fantastic 
female  Germania,  which  has  been  betrothed  to  so  many 


168  THE   MERCHANT   OF    BERLIN. 

lords  and  wooers,  that  she  can  remain  faithful  and  true 
to  none?  (Jerrnania  will  then  only  be  happy  when  one 
of  her  lovers  has  the  boldness  to  kill  off  and  tread  under 
foot  all  his  rivals  and  so  build  himself  up  an  undisputed 
throne.  That  is  Austria's  mission,  and  our  duty  is  to 
fulfil  it.  We  are  the  heralds  who  go  before  Germania's 
Austrian  bridegroom,  and  everywhere  illuminate  the 
heavens  with  the  torches  of  our  triumphs.  If  the.  torches 
now  and  then  come  too  near  some  piece  of  humanity  and 
set  it  on  fire,  what  is  that  to  us  ?  Germany  is  our  enemy, 
and  if  we  have  a  puling  compassion  on  our  enemy,  we 
become  traitors  to  our  own  cause.  That's  all.  But  what 
is  the  use  of  this  strife  and  these  recriminations?  "  asked 
he,  suddenly  breaking  into  a  smile.  "  I  have  only  come 
to  ask  your  excellency  when  you  intend  to  light  these 
new  wedding-torches  which  are  to  redden  the  sky  of  Ber- 
lin?" 

"  What  wedding-torches?  "  inquired  Tottleben,  turn- 
ing pale. 

"  Well,  those  which  are  to  burst  out  from  the  mint 
and  factory  buildings,"  said  De  Lacy,  with  a  smile  of 
indifference.  "  I  anticipate  with  extraordinary  pleasure 
this  exhibition  of  fireworks  which  the  town  of  Berlin  is 
going  to  give  in  honor  of  our  presence." 

"  You  mean  to  say  in  disgrace  of  our  presence,"  ex- 
claimed Tottleben,  ardently. 

Count  de  Lacy  looked  at  him  with  a  compassionate 
shrug  of  the  shoulders.  "  My  dear  count,"  said  he,  with 
cutting  coldness,  "  when  a  man  becomes  a  Eussian  gen- 
eral, he  must  have  a  Eussian  heart,  and  not  allow  himself 
to  be  influenced  by  any  German  softness  or  sympathy. 
Otherwise  it  might  happen  that  they  might  make  a  mis- 
take, and  not  being  able  to  deprive  you  of  your  German 
heart,  might  take  your  German  head  instead." 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  109 

General  Tottleben  drew  back  with  astonishment,  and 
stared  at  him. 

Count  de  Lacy  continued,  smiling,  and  in  a  quiet 
tone:  "I  warn  you  to  guard  against  your  own  mildness 
and  your  German  heart.  General  Fermore  is  my  friend, 
and  often  consults  me  about  the  meaning  of  German 
words.  How  would  you  like  it  if  I  should  explain  the 
word  treason  in  a  manner  dangerous  to  yourself,  and  it' 
this  explanation  should  result  in  translating  your  excel- 
lency into  Siberia?" 

"  General  Fermore  is  neither  my  commander  nor  my 
master,"  cried  Tottleben,  proudly. 

"  But  the  lord  and  master  of  your  lady  and  mistress, 
the  high  and  mighty  Empress  Elizabeth — remember 
that.  Will  your  excellency  now  condescend  to  inform 
me  at  what  time  the  Berlin  armory  shall  rise  fluttering 
in  the  air  like  a  bird  ?  " 

"  And  do  you  know  that,  too  ? "  asked  Tottleben, 
with  painful  astonishment. 

"  I  have  already  told  you  that  the  Russians  and  Aus- 
trians  are  faithful  allies,  and  have  no  secrets  from  each 
other,  as  far  as  their  designs  upon  Germany  are  con- 
cerned. Oh,  it  will  be  a  splendid  feu  de  joie  for  the  house 
of  Austria,  when  the  Prussian  armory  is  blown  into  the 
air!  When  are  we  to  enjoy  this  spectacle,  general?  " 

General  von  Tottleben  sank  his  head  in  silence  on  his 
breast.  Count  de  Lacy  regarded  him  with  a  cold  and 
.piercing  glance.  Tottleben  felt  this  look,  and  under- 
stood its  important  significance.  He  knew  that  his 
whole  future,  his  freedom,  perhaps  even  his  life,  hung 
upon  this  moment. 

"In  three  hours  from  now  the  spectacle  will  take 
place,"  said  he,  with  a  forced  laugh.  "  In  three  hours 
the  wedding-torches  shall  be  lighted,  and  in  order  to 


170  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

make  it  the  pleasanter,  we  will  have  the  wails  of  the 
people  of  Berlin  as  a  musical  accompaniment." 

"  In  three  hours,  then,"  said  Count  de  Lacy,  bowing 
low;  "  I  hasten  to  announce  it  to  my  officers.  I  am 
burning  with  impatience  to  witness  this  rare  spectacle." 

Count  de  Lacy  departed,  and  General  Tottleben  was 
again  alone. 

For  a  long  time  did  he  pace  his  room  in  abstract 
meditation,  anger  and  pity,  fear  and  terror  struggling  in 
his  soul.  He  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  danger  which 
threatened  him.  He  knew  that  Count  Fermore  hated 
him  as  a  dangerous  rival  for  the  smiles  of  the  empress, 
and  only  waited  fcr  a  favorable  opportunity  to  over- 
throw him.  He  was  therefore  obliged  to  yield  to  this 
cruel  necessity;  the  Berlin  armory  must  be  sacrificed. 

Suddenly  his  countenance  lighted  up,  and  his  fea- 
tures assumed  an  expression  of  joy.  He  hastened  rap- 
idly to  the  door  and  summoned  his  body  servant  and 
slave,  Ivan  Petrowitsch.  "  Ivan,"  said  he,  with  the 
stern  and  cold  composure  of  a  Russian — "  Ivan,  I  have  a 
commission  for  you,  and  if  you  are  successful  in  its  exe- 
cution, I  will  not  have  your  son  Feodor  hung,  although 
I  know  that  yesterday,  contrary  to  my  order,  he  was 
present  at  the  plundering  of  a  house." 

"  Speak,  master,  what  am  I  to  do?  I  will  save  my 
son,  even  if  it  cost  my  own  life." 

"  It  will  cost  your  life,  Ivan." 

"I  am  your  property,  master,  and  my  life  belongs 
to  you,"  said  the  serf,  sadly.  "You  can  have  me 
whipped  to  death  any  time  it  pleases  you.  Say,  then, 
what  I  must  do  to  save  my  son." 

"Fifty  Cossacks  are  to  ride  immediately  to  the 
powder-mills  to  bring  powder.  You  will  accompany 
them." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Ivan  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "  Is  that  all 
I  have  to  do  ?  "  asked  he. 

Tottleben  was  not  yet  sufficiently  Russian.  His  Ger- 
man heart  would  assert  its  rights.  As  he  met  the  in- 
quiring look  of  Ivan,  he  turned  his  eye  away.  He  forgot 
that  it  was  only  a  serf  he  was  speaking  to,  and  not  a 
human  being. 

But  he  soon  recalled  it.  "  You  will  accompany 
these  Cossacks  to  the  powder-mills,  I  say,  and  as  you  do 
so  you  will  smoke  your  pipe,  and  see  that  the  tobacco 
burns  well,  and  that  you  are  burning  tinder  on  top 
of  it." 

An  expression  of  comprehension  shone  in  Ivan's  eyes. 
"  I  will  smoke,  master,"  said  he,  sadly. 

"  When  you  are  in  the  powder-mills,  and  the  Cos- 
sacks are  loading  the  powder,  you  will  help  them,  and  in 
doing  so  you  will  let  the  pipe  fall  out  of  your  mouth," 
said  Tottleben,  in  an  undertone,  and  his  voice  trembled 
ever  so  little.  There  was  a  pause — Ivan  leaned,  pale  and 
trembling,  against  the  wall.  General  Tottleben  had 
turned  away,  as  if  afraid  to  encounter  the  pallid,  terri- 
fied countenance  of  his  slave. 

"If  you  do  not  execute  my  command,"  said  he, 
finally,  "  I  will  have  your  only  son  hung,  as  he  deserves 
to  be.  If  you  betray  to  any  one  soever  a  word  of  my 
order,  I  will  have  your  wife  whipped  to  death.  Now 
think  of  it." 

Ivan  shook  as  if  in  an  ague.  His  teeth  chattered  to- 
gether. "I  will  smoke,  master,"  said  he,  at  last,  with 
an  effort,  "and  I  will  drop  my  pipe  in  the  powder- 
mills.  Have  pity  on  my  son,  master,  and  spare  my 
wife! " 

"I  will  do  so,  Ivan,"  said  Tottleben.  "I  will  give 
them  both  their  freedom,  and  a  pension." 


172  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Ivan  dropped  his  head,  and  a  convulsive  groan  burst 
from  his  breast. 

"  Time  passes;  make  haste!  "  cried  the  general,  with 
assumed  harshness. 

"  I  go,  master/'  sighed  Ivan.  "  You  will  not,  then, 
string  up  my  poor  Feodor,  nor  have  my  wife  whipped?  " 

"  If  you  execute  my  order  strictly  and  punctually,  I 
will  care  for  them." 

Two  tears  coursed  slowly  down  Ivan's  brown  cheek. 
"  I  will  carry  out  your  orders,  master;  I  will  smoke,  and 
I  will  drop  my  pipe.  Farewell,  master!  " 

He  approached  his  master  with  slavish  humility,  and 
kissed  the  seam  of  his  garment.  "  Farewell,  master. 
I  thank  you,  for  you  have  always  been  a  kind  master  to 
me,"  said  he,  and  his  tears  moistened  the  general's  coat. 

General  Tottleben  was  as  yet  unable  completely  to 
convert  his  German  heart  into  a  Eussian  one.  He  felt 
himself  touched  by  this  humble  and  heroic  submission 
of  his  slave.  He  felt  as  if  he  must  give  him  some  com- 
fort on  his  fatal  road. 

"  Ivan,"  said  he,  softly,  "  your  death  will  save,  per- 
haps, not  only  the  property,  but  also  the  lives  of  many 
hundred  other  men." 

Ivan  kissed  passionately  his  proffered  hand.  "  I 
thank  you,  master.  Farewell,  and  think  sometimes  of 
your  poor  Ivan." 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  afterward  was  seen  a  troop  of 
fifty  Cossacks,  on  their  swift-footed  little  horses,  racing 
down  Frederick  Street.  Each  man  had  a  powder-sack 
with  him,  and  seeing  them  ride  by,  people  whispered  to 
each  other,  "  They  are  riding  to  the  powder-mills.  They 
have  shot  away  all  their  own  powder,  and  now.  in  true 
Cossack  style,  they  are  going  to  take  our  Prussian  now- 
der."  At  that  time  Frederick  Street  did  not  reach  be- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  173 

yond  the  river  Spree.  On  the  other  bank  began  the 
faubourgs  and  the  gardens.  Even  Monbijou  was  then 
only  a  royal  country  seat,  situated  in  the  Oranienburg 
suburb.  The  powder-mills,  which  lay  beyond  the  gar- 
dens, with  a  large  sandy  plain  intervening,  were  suffi- 
ciently remote  from  the  town  to  prevent  all  danger  from 
their  possible  explosion. 

Ivan,  the  serf  of  Count  von  Tottleben,  rode  by  the 
side  of  the  officer  of  the  Cossacks.  He  pranced  his  pony 
about,  and  was  cheerful  and  jolly  like  his  comrades,  the 
merry  sons  of  the  steppe.  As  they  reached  the  gate  they 
halted  their  horses,  and  gazed  with  evident  pleasure  on 
the  desert,  wild,  sandy  plain,  which  stretched  out  before 
them. 

"  How  beautiful  that  is!  "  exclaimed  Petrowitsch,  the 
hetman  of  the  Cossacks.  "  Just  look — what  a  hand- 
some steppe!  " 

"  Just  such  a  fine  sand  steppe  as  at  home  in  our  own 
country! "  sighed  one  of  the  Cossacks,  beginning  to 
hum  a  song  of  his  home. 

"  This  is  the  finest  scenery  I  have  seen  in  Germany/' 
cried  another.  "  What  a  pleasure  it  would  be  to  race 
over  this  steppe! " 

"  Come  on,  then,  let  us  get  up  a  race  over  this  splen- 
did steppe,"  said  a  fourth,  "  and  let  us  sing  one  of  the 
songs  we  are  used  to  at  home." 

"Yes,  agreed!  let  us!"  cried  all,  ranging  quickly 
their  horses  in  line. 

"  Wait  a  moment,"  cried  Ivan;  "  I  can't  sing,  you  all 
know,  and  I've  only  one  sweetheart,  and  that's  my  pipe. 
Let  me  then  light  my  pipe  so  that  I  can  smoke."  He 
struck  fire  with  his  steel,  and  lighting  the  tinder,  placed 
it  in  the  bowl  of  his  pipe.  No  one  saw  the  sad,  shud- 
dering look  which  he  cast  at  the  glowing  tinder  and  his 
12 


174:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

spark-scattering  pipe.  "  Now  forward,  boys,  and  sing  us 
a  lively  song  from  home,"  said  Ivan. 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!" 

They  charge  over  the  beautiful  plain,  and  sing  in  a 
pealing  chorus,  the  favorite  song  of  the  Cossack,  at  oncft 
so  soft  and  sad: 

"  Lovely  Minka !  must  I  leave  thee  f  " 

Big  tears  ran  down  poor  Ivan's  cheek.  No  one  saw 
them,  no  one  observed  him.  He  charged  with  the  others 
over  the  Berlin  steppe,  and  blew  the  smoke  out  of  his 
pipe.  No  one  heard  the  sad  sighs  which  he  uttered  as 
he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  powder-mills.  No 
one  heard  the  sad  words  of  parting  which  he  muttered 
to  himself  as  his  comrades  sang: 

"  Lovely  Minka !  must  I  leave  thee, 

Leave  my  happy,  heather  plains  I 
Ah !  this  parting  does  not  grieve  thee, 

Though  still  true  my  heart  remains. 

Far  from  thee  I  roam, 
Sadly  see  the  sunbeams  shining, 
Lonely  all  the  night  I'm  pining 

Far  from  thee  alone." 

They  reach  the  powder-mills;  the  Cossacks  halt  their 
horses  and  spring  from  their  saddles. 

Slowly  and  hesitatingly  does  Ivan  proceed;  he  passes 
about  his  pipe;  he  puffs  at  the  tobacco  to  make  it  burn, 
and  smoke  more  freely. 

And  now  all's  right.  The  pipe  Is  alight.  Like  bril- 
liant eyes  of  fire  the  burning  tobacco  shines  out  of  the 
bowl.  Ivan  puts  it  back  in  his  mouth  and  blows  great 
clouds  of  smoke,  as  he  and  the  Cossacks  approach  the 
gates  of  the  powder-mills. 

The  Russian  sentinels  let  them  pass,  and,  joking  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  175 

laughing  merrily,  the  Cossacks  carry  their  bags  into  the 
building  to  fill  them  with  powder  for  the  blowing  up  of 
the  arsenal.  How  joyous  and  careless  they  are,  these 
sons  of  the  steppe!  How  calmly  does  Ivan  continue  to 
smoke  his  pipe,  although  they  are  now  in  the  large  hall, 
where  casks  of  powder  are  ranged  in  endless  rows! 

And  now  a  cask  is  opened,  and  merrily  and  jestingly 
the  Cossacks  begin  to  load  the  powder  into  their  sacks. 

What  art  thou  staring  at  so  wildly,  Ivan  Petro- 
witsch?  Why  do  the  big  drops  of  sweat  run  down  thy 
forehead?  Why  do  thy  limbs  tremble,  and  why  dost 
thou  look  so  sadly  and  mournfully  at  thy  comrades? 

They  sing  so  merrily,  they  chatter  so  gayly,  all  the 
while  pouring  the  powder  into  their  sacks  nimbly  and 
actively! 

Ivan  keeps  on  blowing  furious  clouds  of  smoke  out  of 
his  pipe. 

Suddenly  he  utters  a  cry,  a  heart-rending,  pitiful 
cry.  The  burning  pipe  drops  from  his  mouth! 

Then  rises  a  wild  yell — an  awful,  horrible  report! 

The  earth  quakes  and  trembles,  as  if  about  to  open, 
to  vomit  forth  the  burning  stream  of  a  thundering 
crater.  The  sky  seems  blackened  by  the  fearful  smoke 
which  fills  the  air  far  and  wide.  Everywhere  may  be 
seen  human  bodies,  single  shattered  limbs,  ruins  of  the 
exploded  building,  flying  through  the  air,  and  covering 
the  groaning,  trembling  earth.  But  no  syllable  or  sound 
of  complaint,  no  death-rattle  is  now  heard.  All  is  over. 

The  powder-mills  have  flown  into  the  air,  and, 
though  far  distant  from  Berlin,  yet  this  terrible  explo- 
sion was  felt  in  every  part  of  the  city.*  In  the  Frederick 
Street  the  houses  shook  as  if  from  an  earthquake,  and 
countless  panes  of  glass  were  shattered. 

*  Archenholz :  "  History  of  the  Seven  Years'  War,"  p.  194. 


176  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

With  darkened  brow  and  a  burst  of  anger  did  Gen- 
eral von  Tottleben  receive  the  news  that  the  powder- 
mills  had  blown  up,  and  fifty  Cossacks  had  lost  their 
lives  thereby.  He  mourned  for  the  unfortunate  Cos- 
sacks and  his  poor  serf,  Ivan  Petrowitsch.  Still  more  did 
he  lament  that  it  was  now  impossible  to  blow  up  the 
arsenal  in  Berlin.  But  it  was  not  his  fault  that  the 
commands  of  his  empress  could  not  be  executed.  The 
.Russians  had  shot  away  all  their  powder,  and  the  stock 
in  the  powder-mills  having  been  destroyed,  there  was 
none  left  to  carry  into  execution  this  grand  undertaking. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

JOHN    GOTZKOWSKY. 

A  SAD  and  anxious  period  had  the  unfortunate  city 
of  Berlin  yet  to  pass  through.  With  fear  and  trembling 
did  the  inhabitants  await  the  approach  of  each  morning, 
and  in  spiritless  despondency  they  seemed  to  have  lost 
all  capacity  for  helping  themselves. 

There  was  but  one  man  who,  unterrified  and  unwa- 
vering, with  the  cheerful  courage  of  a  noble  soul,  exposed 
himself  to  danger,  to  suffering  and  grief,  who  proposed 
to  himself  but  one  object — to  help  others  as  far  as  lay 
in  his  power,  and  to  avert  fresh  misfortune,  additional 
care  and  anxiety  from  the  too  heavily  laden  inhabitants 
of  Berlin. 

This  one  man  was  John  Gotzkowsky,  the  Merchant 
of  Berlin.  In  this  day  of  their  trouble  the  inhabitants 
looked  up  to  him  as  to  a  helping  angel;  the  poor  prayed 
to  him,  the  rich  fled  to  him  with  their  treasures;  with 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  177 

him  the  persecuted  found  refuge,  the  hungry  shelter  and 
food. 

For  Gotzkowsky  there  was  no  rest  or  leisure,  nor  did 
he  feel  care  or  sorrow.  The  tears  he  had  shed  about 
Elise  he  had  buried  in  his  heart,  overcoming  a  father's 
grief  by  the  power  of  his  will.  At  this  time  he  only 
remembered  that  he  was  called  to  the  sacred  duty  of 
succoring  his  fellow-men,  his  suffering  brothers — to  be 
a  father  to  the  needy,  a  deliverer  to  the  oppressed. 

The  doors  of  his  house  were  open  to  all  who  sought 
refuge  with  him.  The  wives  and  children  and  aged 
parents  of  his  workmen  rushed  there  with  screams  and 
loud  lamentations,  and  he  received  them  all,  and  gave 
them  beds  in  his  splendid  halls,  and  his  gilt  and  silken 
ottomans  served  for  refreshing  places  to  hungry  and 
freezing  poverty. 

But  not  the  poor  alone,  the  wealthy  also  found  refuge 
in  his  house.  They  knew  that  Gotzkowsky's  word  had 
much  influence,  not  only  with  General  Bachmann:  but 
also  with  General  von  Tottleben,  and  that  this  latter  had 
ordered  that  Gotzkowsky  should  always  have  free  admis- 
sion to  him.  In  their  anxiety  and  need  they  put  aside 
the  proud  bearing  of  their  rank  and  dignity,  and  has- 
tened to  him  to  plead  for  help  and  rest,  to  hide  their 
treasures  and  place  their  lives  and  fortunes  under  his 
guardianship. 

But  while  hundreds  sought  refuge  and  safety  there, 
Gotzkowsky  himself  was  like  a  stranger  in  his  own 
house.  Day  and  night  was  he  seen  on  the  streets;  where- 
ever  danger  and  alarm  prevailed,  he  appeared  like  a 
rescuing  angel;  he  brought  help  when  all  else  despaired, 
and  the  power  of  his  eloquence  and  his  pleading  words 
silenced  even  the  rough  insolence  of  the  enemy's  soldiers. 
A  hundred  times  did  he  expose  his  own  life  to  save  some 


178  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

unfortunate.  In  the  New  Frederick  Street  he  rushed 
through  the  flames  into  a  burning  house  to  save  a  child 
which  had  been  forgotten. 

Elsewhere  he  fought  singly  against  twenty  Aus- 
trian soldiers,  who  were  about  to  carry  off  two  young 
girls  in  spite  of  their  heart-rending  shrieks  and  en- 
treaties. The  rescued  maidens  sank  at  his  feet,  and 
bathed  his  hand  with  their  tears. 

Gotzkowsky  raised  them  to  his  heart,  and  said,  with 
an  indescribable  expression:  "  Should  I  not  have  com- 
passion on  you?  Am  not  I  a  father?  Thank  my 
daughter,  for  it  was  she  who  saved  you." 

But  now,  at  last,  exhausted  Nature  demanded  her 
rights.  After  two  days  and  nights  without  rest,  Gotz- 
kowsky tottered  toward  his  own  house.  As  he  crossed 
the  threshold  he  asked  himself  with  an  anxious  heart — 
"  Will  Elise  come  to  meet  me?  Has  she  cared  for  me?  " 
And  trembling  with  care  and  love,  he  went  in. 

Elise  did  not  come  to  meet  him.  No  one  bade  him 
welcome  but  his  servant  Peter.  Gently  at  last,  indeed 
almost  timidly,  he  ventured  to  inquire  after  his  daughter. 

"  She  is  in  the  large  hall,  busy  nursing  the  wounded 
who  have  been  carried  there." 

Gotzkowsky's  countenance  expressed  great  delight 
and  relief  at  this  repcrt.  Elise  had  not,  then,  buried 
herself  in  the  solitude  of  her  room  in  idle  complaint, 
but  had  sought,  like  himself,  comfort  for  her  suffering 
in  helping  and  sympathizing  with  others.  In  this  mo- 
ment he  appreciated  the  infinity  of  his  love.  He  yearned 
to  take  her  to  his  heart,  and  pour  out  to  her  all  his  un- 
appreciated, doubted  love,  and  convince  her  that  she, 
his  daughter,  the  only  child  of  his  wife,  was  the  true 
end  and  object  of  his  life.  But  unhappy,  oppressed 
Berlin  left  him  no  time  to  attend  to  the  soft  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  179 

gentle  dictates  of  his  father's  heart.  He  had  scarcely 
got  into  his  house,  when  two  messengers  arrived  from  the 
town  Council,  bringing  him  six  thousand  dollars  in  cash, 
with  the  urgent  request  that  he  would  take  charge  of 
this  sum,  which  would  be  safe  only  with  him.  The 
town  messengers  had  scarcely  left  him,  when  there  ar- 
rived the  rich  manufacturers,  Wegeli  and  Wuerst,  with 
a  wagon-load  of  gold  and  silver  bars  which  Gotzkowsky 
had  promised  to  keep  in  his  fire-proof  cellars. 

His  house  had  become  the  treasury  of  the  whole  of 
Berlin;  and  if  it  had  been  destroyed,  with  all  these  gold 
and  silver  ingots,  these  diamonds  and  silver  ware,  money 
and  papers,  all  the  Exchanges  of  Europe  would  have 
felt  the  disastrous  consequences. 

At  last,  all  these  treasures  were  stowed  away,  and 
Gotzkowsky  addressed  himself  to  rest,  when  the  door 
of  his  room  was  suddenly  opened,  and  General  von  Bach- 
mann  entered  hastily. 

"  Gotzkowsky,"  said  he,  "  I  have  come  with  impor- 
tant intelligence,  and  to  redeem  the  promise  I  made  to 
my  friend  Sievers."  Approaching  more  closely  to  Gotz- 
kowsky, he  said  to  him  in  an  undertone:  "  General  von 
Tottleben  has  just  received  orders  to  destroy  and  burn 
all  royal  factories  and  mills." 

Gotzkowsky  turned  pale,  and  inquired  with  horror, 
"  Why  this  barbarous  proceeding?  " 

General  Bachmann  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It  is 
the  order  of  the  commander-in-chief,  Count  von  Fer- 
more,"  said  he;  "  and  Tottleben  will  have  to  be  all  the 
more  particular  from  the  fact  that,  instead  of  the  arsenal, 
fifty  of  our  soldiers  were  blown  into  the  air.  Here,  in 
the  mean  while,  take  this  paper,  and  see  whether,  among 
the  factories  to  be  destroyed,  one  of  yours  has  been  in- 
cluded by  mistake." 


180  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.. 

Gotzkowsky  looked  over  the  list  with  dismay.  "  Did 
not  your  excellency  say  that  only  royal  factories  were  to 
be  destroyed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  so  runs  the  order." 

"  But  the  factories  that  stand  on  this  list  are  not 
royal  institutions.  The  brass-works  in  Eberwalde,  the 
gold  and  silver  factories,  and  the  warehouse  in  Berlin, 
do  not  belong  to  the  king,  and  are  they  going  to  be  so 
barbarous  as  to  destroy  them?  That  cannot  be.  I  will 
hasten  to  General  Tottleben,  and  entreat  him  to  revoke 
this  cruel  order." 

General  Bachmann  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  I  am 
afraid  it  will  be  in  vain,"  said  he.  "  Besides,  you  incur 
great  risk  in  your  undertaking.  The  general  is  in  a 
very  angry,  excited  mood,  and  your  intercession  will 
only  increase  his  bitterness  and  anger." 

"  I  fear  not  his  anger,"  cried  Gotzkowsky  boldly. 
"  If  no  one  else  dares  to  tell  him  the  truth,  I  will  do  it; 
and  with  argument  and  entreaty  compel  him  to  be  hu- 
mane, and  to  respect  the  property  of  others.  Come,  sir, 
let  us  go  to  General  Tottleben!  " 

"  No,  sir.  I  am  not  going  with  you,"  said  Bach- 
mann, laughing.  "  I  am  not  a  man  to  tremble  on  the 
eve  of  battle,  and  yet  I  fear  to  meet  Tottleben's  angry 
looks.  In  his  wrath  he  is  like  a  Jupiter  Tonans,  ready 
to  launch  his  thunderbolts,  and  dash  to  pieces  all  who 
approach  him." 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  his  thunder! "  cried  Gotzkow- 
sky, fervently.  "  The  property  and  welfare  of  Berlin 
are  in  danger.  I  must  go  to  the  general!  " 

"  Then  go  along,"  said  Bachmann,  "  and  may  God 
give  power  to  your  words!  I  have  warned  you,  and  that 
is  all  I  can  do." 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer  him.     Trembling  with 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  181 

eagerness  and  impatience,  he  dressed  himself,  and  throw- 
ing his  cloak  around  him,  he  once  more  left  his  house, 
with  the  alacrity  of  a  young  man. 

General  Bachmann  looked  after  him,  smiling 
thoughtfully.  "  He  is  a  noble  fellow,"  said  he,  "  and 
Berlin  has  good  reason  to  be  grateful  to  him,  and  to 
love  him.  But  who  knows?  perhaps,  for  that  very 
reason,  she  will  one  day  hate  him.  Noble-mindedness  is 
so  soon  forgotten!  It  is  the  solid  weight  that  sinks  tu 
the  bottom,  while  light  deeds  float  on  top.  Mankind 
is  not  fond  of  being  grateful.  I  would  like  to  know 
whether  Berlin  will  ever  show  a  due  appreciation  of  this 
noble  man  ?  " 


CHAPTER   VII. 

THE   HORRORS   OF   WAR. 

THE  Russians  had  at  last  allowed  themselves  to  be 
carried  away  by  the  example  set  them  by  the  Austrian  s 
and  Saxons.  Like  them,  they  roamed  through  Berlin, 
robbing  and  plundering,  unmindful  of  discipline,  and 
forgetting  the  severe  punishments  which  Tottleben  in- 
flicted on  those  whose  misdeeds  reached  his  ear. 

Like  the  Austrians,  the  Cossacks  entered  houses  with 
wanton  arrogance,  and,  under  the  pretext  of  being  Rus- 
sian safeguards,  they  stole,  and  robbed,  and  ill-treated  in 
the  rudest  manner  those  who  opposed  their  demands. 
They  had  even  managed  to  reduce  their  robbery  and 
extortion  to  a  kind  of  system,  and  to  value  the  human 
person  after  a  new  fashion.  It  was  a  sort  of  mercantile 
transaction,  and  the  Cossacks  were  the  brokers  in  this 
new-fashioned  business.  Stealthily  and  unheard,  they 


182  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

slipped  into  houses,  fell  upon  the  unsuspecting  women 
and  children,  and  dragged  them  out,  not  to  capture  them 
as  the  Romans  did  the  Sabine  women,  but  to  hold  them 
as  so  much  merchandise,  to  be  redeemed  by  their  friends 
and  relatives  at  high  and  often  enormous  ransoms. 

But  the  Cossacks  drew  but  small  profit  from  this 
hunt  after  noble  human  game.  They  were  only  ser- 
vants, acting  under  orders  from  their  officers.  These 
latter  divided  the  booty,  throwing  to  the  Cossacks  a 
small  reward  for  their  skill  in  robbing. 

Thus,  for  some  days,  Berlin  was  not  only  subjugated 
by  the  enemy,  but  a  prey  to  robbers  and  slave-dealers, 
and  moans  and  lamentations  were  heard  in  every  house. 
All  the  more  merrily  did  the  enemy's  soldiers  carouse 
and  enjoy  themselves,  laugh  and  joke.  For  them  Berlin 
was  nothing  more  than  an  orange  to  be  squeezed  dry, 
whose  life-blood  was  to  be  drawn  out  to  add  new  zest  to 
their  own  draught  of  life. 

The  young  Russian  officers  were  sitting  together  in 
the  large  room  of  their  barracks.  They  were  drinking 
and  making  merry,  and  striking  their  glasses  noisily  to- 
gether; draining  them  to  the  health  of  the  popular, 
handsome,  and  brilliant  comrade  who  had  just  entered 
their  circle,  and  who  was  no  other  than  he  whom  Gotz- 
kowsky's  daughter,  in  the  sorrow  of  her  heart,  was  mourn- 
ing as  dead! — no  one  else  than  the  Russian  colonel,  Count 
Feodor  von  Brenda. 

He  had  been  right,  therefore,  in  trusting  to  Fortune. 
Fortune  had  favored  him,  as  she  always  does  those  who 
boldly  venture  all  to  win  all,  and  who  sport  with  danger 
as  with  a  toy.  Indeed,  it  was  an  original  and  piquant 
adventure  which  the  Russian  colonel  had  experienced, 
the  more  piquant  because  it  had  threatened  him  with 
death,  and  at  one  moment  his  life  had  been  in  extreme 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  183 

danger.  It  had  delighted  him  for  once  to  experience 
all  the  horrors  of  death,  the  palpitation,  the  despair  of 
a  condemned  culprit;  to  acquire  in  his  own  person  a 
knowledge  of  the  great  and  overpowering  feelings,  which 
he  had  read  so  much  about  in  books,  and  which  he  had 
not  felt  in  reality  even  in  the  midst  of  battle.  But  yet 
this  bold  playing  with  death  had,  toward  the  last,  lost 
a  little  of  its  charm,  and  a  moment  arrived  when  his 
courage  failed  him,  and  his  daring  spirit  was  overpow- 
ered by  his  awed  physical  nature.  There  was  not,  as 
there  is  in  battle,  the  excitement  which  conquers  the 
fear  of  death,  and  drunk  with  victory,  mocks  one  to  his 
face;  there  was  not  the  wild  delight  which  possesses 
the  soldier  in  the  midst  of  a  shower  of  balls,  and  makes 
him,  as  it  were,  rush  toward  eternity  with  a  shout.  No, 
indeed!  It  was  something  quite  different  which  Colo- 
nel von  Brenda,  otherwise  so  brave  and  valiant,  now  felt. 

When  the  Austrian  soldiers  had  pronounced  his  sen- 
tence of  death,  when  they  formed  a  ring  around  him  at 
the  Gens-d'Armes  Market,  and  loaded  their  pieces  for 
his  execution,  then  the  haughty  Russian  colonel  felt  a 
sudden  change  take  place;  his  blood  curdled  in  his  veins, 
and  he  felt  as  if  thousands  of  small  worms  were  creeping 
through  them,  gliding  slowly,  horribly  to  his  heart. 
At  length,  in  the  very  despair  which  oppressed  him,  he 
found  strength  to  cast  his  incubus  from  his  breast,  and 
with  a  voice  loud  and  powerful  as  thunder  to  cry  out  for 
help  and  succor.  His  voice  was  heard;  it  reached  the 
ear  of  General  Bachmann,  who  came  in  person  to  set  free 
the  wild  young  officer,  the  favorite  of  his  empress,  from 
the  hands  of  the  Austrians. 

This  adventure,  which  had  terminated  so  famously. 
Count  Brenda  now  related  to  his  friends  and  comrades. 
To  be  sure,  the  general  had  punished  the  mad  freak 


184  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

with  an  arrest  of  four-and-twenty  hours.  But  after 
undergoing  this  punishment,  he  was  more  than  ever  the 
hero  of  the  day,  the  idol  of  his  comrades,  who  now  cele- 
brated his  release  from  arrest  with  loud  rejoicing  and  the 
cracking  of  champagne  bottles.  After  they  had  laughed 
and  joked  to  their  satisfaction,  they  resorted  to  the  dice. 

"  And  what  stake  shall  we  play  for?  "  asked  Feodor, 
as  he  cast  a  look  of  ill-concealed  contempt  on  his  young 
companions,  who  so  little  understood  the  art  of  drinking 
the  cup  of  pleasure  with  decency,  and  rolled  about  on 
their  seats  with  lolling  tongues  and  leering  eyes. 

Feodor  alone  had  preserved  the  power  of  his  mind; 
his  brain  alone  was  unclouded  by  the  fumes  of  cham- 
pagne, and  that  which  had  made  the  others  mad  had 
only  served  to  make  him  sad  and  gloomy.  The  drunk- 
enness of  his  comrades  had  sobered  him,  and,  feeling 
satiated  with  all  the  so-called  joys  and  delights  of  life, 
he  asked  himself,  with  a  smile  of  contempt,  whether  the 
stammering,  staggering  fellows,  who  sat  next  to  him, 
were  fit  and  suitable  companions  and  associates  of  a  man 
who  had  made  pleasure  a  study,  and  who  considered 
enjoyment  as  a  philosophical  problem,  difficult  of  solu- 
tion. 

"  And  for  what  stake  shall  we  play?  "  he  asked  again, 
as  with  a  powerful  grip  he  woke  his  neighbor,  Lieu- 
tenant von  Matusch,  out  of  the  half  sleep  which  had 
crept  over  him. 

"  For  our  share  of  the  booty! "  stammered  the  lieu- 
tenant. 

Feodor  looked  at  him  with  surprise.  "  What  booty? 
Have  we,  then,  become  robbers  and  plunderers,  that  you 
speak  of  booty?  " 

His  comrades  burst  into  a  wild  laugh. 

"  Just  listen  to  the  sentimental  dreamer,-  the  cos- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  135 

mopolite,"  cried  Major  von  Fritsch.  "  He  looks  upon  it 
as  dishonorable  to  take  booty.  I  for  my  part  maintain 
that  there  is  no  greater  pleasure,  and  certainly  none 
which  is  more  profitable.  Fill  your  glasses,  friends,  and 
let  us  drink  to  our  hunting.  '  Hurrah!  hurrah  for  hu- 


man game 


t  >» 


They  struck  their  glasses  together,  and  emptied  them 
amidst  an  uproar  of  laughter. 

"  Colonel,  you  shall  have  your  share  of  the  booty!  " 
said  Lieutenant  von  Matusch,  laying  his  heavy,  shaky 
hand  on  Feodor's  shoulder.  "  We  never  intended  to 
cheat  you  out  of  your  portion,  but  you  were  not  here, 
and  therefore  up  to  this  time  you  could  have  no  share 
in  it." 

As  Feodor  pressed  him  with  questions,  he  related 
how  they  had  formed  a  compact,  and  pledged  themselves 
to  have  their  booty  and  captives  in  common. 

"  We  have  caught  more  than  a  dozen  head,  and  they 
have  ransomed  themselves  handsomely,"  cried  Major  von 
Fritsch.  "  We  have  just  sent  out  ten  of  our  men  again 
on  the  chase." 

"Oh!  I  hope  they  will  bring  in  just  such  another 
handsome  young  girl  as  they  did  yesterday,"  cried  Ma- 
tusch, rubbing  his  hands  with  delight.  "  Ah,  that  was  a 
pleasant  evening!  She  offered  us  treasures,  diamonds, 
and  money;  she  promised  us  thousands  if  we  would  only 
release  her  at  once!  She  wept  like  a  Madonna,  and 
wrung  her  snow-white  hands,  and  all  that  only  made  her 
prettier  still." 

Colonel  Feodor  looked  at  him  in  anger.  In  contact 
with  such  coarse  and  debauched  companions  his  more 
refined  self  rose  powerful  within  him,  and  his  originally 
noble  nature  turned  with  loathing  from  this  barren 
waste  of  vulgarity  and  infamy. 


186  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

"  I  hope/'  said  he,  warmly,  "  that  you  have  behaved 
as  becomes  noble  gentlemen." 

Matusch  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed.  "  I  do 
not  know  what  you  call  so,  colonel.  She  was  very  pretty, 
and  she  pleased  me.  I  promised  to  set  her  free  to- 
day, for  the  ransom  agreed  on,  and  I  have  kept  my 
word." 

As  he  spoke  thus,  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  in 
which  his  friends  joined  with  glee. 

But  Feodor  von  Brenda  did  not  laugh.  An  inex- 
plicable, prophetic  dread  overpowered  him.  What  if 
this  young  girl,  described  to  him  with  so  much  gusto, 
and  who  had  been  so  shamefully  ill-treated,  should 
prove  to  be  his  Elise,  his  beloved! 

At  this  thought,  anger  and  distress  took  possession 
of  him,  and  he  never  loved  Elise  more  ardently  and  truly 
than  he  did  at  this  moment  when  he  trembled  for  her. 
"And  was  there  no  one,"  cried  he,  with  flashing  eyes, 
"  no  one  knightly  and  manly  enough  to  take  her  part  ? 
How!  even  you,  Major  von  Fritsch,  allowed  this  thing  to 
happen?" 

"  I  was  obliged  to  do  so,"  replied  the  major.  "  We 
have  made  a  law  among  ourselves,  which  we  have  all 
sworn  to  obey.  It  is  established  that  the  dice  shall  de- 
termine to  which  of  the  officers  the  booty  shall  belong; 
and  he  who  throws  the  highest  number  becomes  the 
owner  of  the  person.  He  has  to  negotiate  about  the 
ransom.  This,  however,  of  course  is  divided  among  his 
comrades." 

"But  if  the  person  is  poor?"  asked  Feodor,  indig- 
nantly, "if  she  cannot  pay?" 

"  Then  she  belongs  to  him  who  has  won  her;  he  must 
decide  on  her  fate.  He  is — " 

The  major  stopped  suddenly.     The   other  officers 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  187 

raised  themselves  in  their  seats,  and  listened  with  breath- 
less attention. 

"  I  think  I  hear  the  signal/'  whispered  the  major. 
He  had  not  deceived  himself.  A  shrill,  piercing  whistle 
sounded  a  second  time.  The  officers  sprang  from  their 
seats,  and  broke  into  a  loud  cry  of  triumph: 

"  Our  Cossacks  are  coming.  They  have  caught 
something!  Come,  come,  let  us  throw  the  dice." 

With  fierce  eagerness,  they  all  rushed  to  the  table, 
and  stretched  out  their  hands  for  the  bones.  Imme- 
diately a  deep,  expectant  silence  ensued.  Nothing  was 
heard  but  the  rattling  of  the  dice,  and  the  monotonous 
calling  of  the  numbers  thrown.  Feodor  alone  remained 
at  his  plac£,  lost  in  deep  thought,  and  his  tortured  heart 
kept  asking  itself  the  question,  "  Could  it  be  her  whom 
the  barbarians  had  captured  and  ill-used?  "  This  ques- 
tion burnt  in  his  brain  like  a  red-hot  dagger,  upsetting 
his  reason,  and  driving  him  almost  mad  with  anger  and 
grief.  Still  the  rattling  of  the  noisy  dice  went  on — the 
calling  of  the  numbers.  No  one  took  notice  of  the 
young  man,  who,  in  desperate  distress,  his  clinched  fist 
pressed  against  his  breast,  paced  up  and  down  the  farther 
end  of  the  room,  uttering  broken  words  of  anger  and 
grief.  No  one,  as  has  been  said,  noticed  him,  nor  did 
any  one  remark  that  at  this  moment  the  door  in  the 
background  of  the  hall  was  opened,  and  six  Cossacks 
entered,  bearing  a  litter  on  their  shoulders. 

Feodor  von  Brenda  saw  them,  and,  with  deep  com- 
passion, he  regarded  the  veiled,  inanimate  figure  lying 
on  the  litter,  which  was  set  down  by  the  Cossacks. 

"  Colonel  von  Brenda,"  cried  Major  von  Fritsch  at 
this  moment,  "  it  is  your  turn." 

"  Oh,  he  is  too  sentimental!  "  laughed  out  Matusch. 
"  Is  not  that  the  fact,  colonel?  " 


188  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Feodor  remained  musing  and  pensive.  "  It  is  a  wom- 
an/' said  he  to  himself — "  perhaps  a  young  and  hand- 
some woman  like  Elise.  How  if  I  should  try  to  save  her? 
I  have  luck  at  the  dice.  Well,  I  will  try."  And  with  a 
firm  step  he  approached  the  table.  "  Give  me  the 
bones,"  cried  he.  "  I  will  throw  with  you  for  my  share 
of  the  booty." 

The  dice  rattled  and  tumbled  merrily  on  the  table. 

"  Eighteen  spots! " 

"  The  highest  throw!  " 

"  Colonel  von  Brenda  has  won!  " 

"  The  woman  is  mine! "  cried  Feodor,  his  counte- 
nance beaming  with  joy. 

His  comrades  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "  A 
woman!  How  do  you  know  beforehand  that  it  is  a 
woman?" 

Feodor  pointed  silently  to  the  back  part  of  the  room. 
There  stood  the  Cossacks,  next  to  the  litter,  waiting 
in  solemn  silence  to  be  noticed. 

"  A  woman!  Yes,  by  Heavens!  it  is  a  woman,"  cried 
the  officers.  And,  with  boisterous  laughter,  they  rushed 
toward  the  Cossacks. 

"  And  where  did  you  pick  her  up  ?  "  asked  Major  von 
Fritsch. 

"  Don't  know,"  answered  one  of  the  Cossacks.  "  We 
crept  along  a  wall,  and  when  we  had  climbed  to  the  top, 
we  saw  a  garden.  We  got  down  slowly  and  carefully, 
and  waited  behind  the  trees,  to  see  if  any  one  would 
come  down  the  long  avenue.  We  did  not  have  long  to 
wait  before  this  lady  came  by  herself.  We  rushed  on 
her.  and  all  her  struggles,  of  course,  went  for  nothing. 
Luckily  for  her  and  us,  she  fainted,  for  if  she  had  cried 
out,  some  one,  perhaps,  might  have  come,  and  then  we 
would  have  been  obliged  to  gag  her." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  189 

The  officers  laughed.  "  Well,"  said  the  major, 
"  Colonel  Feodor  can  stop  her  mouth  now  with  kisses." 
In  the  mean  while,  Lieutenant  Matusch  threw  the  Cos- 
sacks a  few  copper  coins,  and  drove  them  out  of  the 
room,  with  scornful  words  of  abuse. 

"  And  now  let  us  see  what  we  have  won,"  cried  the 
officers,  rushing  to  the  litter.  They  were  in  the  act  of 
raising  the  cloth  which  concealed  the  figure,  but  Feodor 
stepped  forward  with  determined  countenance  and  flash- 
ing eyes. 

"  Let  no  one  dare  to  raise  this  veil,"  said  he  haugh- 
tily. His  comrades  rushed,  with  easily  aroused  anger, 
on  him,  and  attempted  again  to  approach  the  veiled 
woman.  "  Be  on  your  guard! "  cried  Feodor,  and, 
drawing  his  sword  from  its  scabbard,  he  placed  himself 
before  the  litter,  ready  for  the  combat.  The  officers 
drew  back.  The  determined,  defiant  countenance  of  the 
young  warrior,  his  raised  and  ready  sword,  made  them 
hesitate  and  yield. 

"  Feodor  is  right,"  said  the  major,  after  a  pause; 
"  he  has  fairly  won  the  woman,  and  it  is  his  business  now 
to  settle  about  the  ransom." 

The  others  cast  their  eyes  down,  perhaps  ashamed 
of  their  own  rudeness.  "  He  is  right,  she  belongs  to 
him,"  murmured  they,  as  they  drew  back  and  approached 
the  door. 

"  Go,  my  friends,  go,"  said  Feodor.  "  I  promise 
you  that  I  will  settle  with  her  about  her  ransom,  and 
give  up  beforehand  all  claim  to  my  share!  " 

The  countenances  of  the  Russian  officers  brighten  crl 
up.  They  nodded  and:  smiled  toward  him  as  they  left 
the  room.  Count  Feodor  von  Brenda  was  now  alone 
with  the  veiled  and  insensible  woman. 


18 


190  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTEE   VIII. 

BY   CHANCE. 

As  soon  as  the  officers  had  left  the  room,  Feodor 
hastened  to  close  the  door  after  them  carefully,  to  pre- 
vent any  importunate  intrusion.  He  then  searched 
thoroughly  all  the  corners  of  the  room,  and  behind  the 
window-curtains,  to  make  sure  that  no  one  was  concealed 
there.  He  wished  to  be  entirely  undisturbed  with  the 
poor  woman  whose  face  he  had  not  yet  beheld,  but  to- 
ward whom  he  felt  himself  attracted  by  a  singular,  inex- 
plicable sensation.  As  soon  as  he  was  convinced  that 
he  was  quite  alone,  he  went  to  her  with  flushed  cheeks 
and  a  beating  heart,  and  unveiled  her. 

But  scarcely  had  he  cast  his  eyes  on  her,  when  he 
uttered  a  cry,  and  staggered  back  with  horror.  This 
woman  who  lay  there  before  him,  lifeless  and  motionless, 
pale  and  beautiful  as  a  broken  flower,  was  none  other 
than  Elise  Gotzkowsky,  his  beloved!  He  stood  and 
stared  at  her;  he  pressed  his  hands  to  his  forehead  as  if 
to  rouse  himself  from  this  spell  which  had  hold  of  him, 
as  if  to  open  his  eyes  to  truth  and  reality.  But  it  was 
no  dream,  no  illusion.  It  was  herself,  his  own  Elise. 
He  approached  her,  seized  her  hand,  passed  his  hands 
over  her  glossy  hair,  and  looked  at  her  long  and  anxious- 
ly. His  blood  rushed  like  a  stream  of  fire  to  his  heart, 
it  seethed  and  burned  in  his  head,  in  his  veins;  and, 
quite  overcome,  he  sank  down  before  her. 

"  It  is  she,"  murmured  he  softly,  "  it  is  Elise.  Now 
she  is  mine,  and  no  one  can  take  her  from  me.  She 
belongs  to  me,  my  wife,  my  beloved.  Fate  itself  bears 
her  to  my  arms,  and  I  were  a  fool  to  let  her  escape 
again." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  191 

With  passionate  impetuosity  he  pressed  her  to  his 
heart,  and  covered  her  lips  and  face  with  his  kisses.  But 
the  violence  of  his  affection  aroused  Elise.  Slowly  and 
stunned  she  raised  herself  in  his  arms.,  and  looked 
around,  as  if  awakened  from  a  dream.  "  Where  am  I  ?  " 
asked  she,  languidly. 

Feodor,  still  kneeling  before  her,  drew  her  more 
closely  to  his  heart.  "  You  are  with  me,"  said  he,  pas- 
sionately, and  as  he  felt  her  trembling  in  his  arms,  he 
continued  still  more  warmly:  "Fear  nothing;  my  Elise, 
look  not  so  timidly  and  anxiously  about  you.  Look  upon 
me,  me,  who  am  lying  at  your  feet,  and  who  ask  nothing 
more  from  Fortune  than  that  this  moment  should  last 
an  eternity." 

Elise  scarcely  understood  him.  She  was  still  stunned 
— still  confused  by  the  dreams  of  her  swoon.  She  passed 
her  hand  over  her  forehead,  and  let  it  drop  again  list- 
less and  powerless.  "  My  senses  are  confused,"  whis- 
pered she  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  do  not  hear;  what  has  hap- 
pened to  me?" 

"  Do  not  ask,  do  not  inquire,"  cried  Feodor,  ardently. 
"  Think  only  that  love  has  sent  an  angel  to  you,  on 
whose  wings  you  have  reposed  on  your  passage  hither  to 
me.  Why  will  you  ask  after  the  nature  of  the  miracle, 
when  the  miracle  itself  brings  delight  to  our  eyes  and 
hearts?  Therefore,  fear  nothing,  gentle,  pure  being. 
Like  an  angel  do  you  come  to  me  through  the  deluge  of 
sin.  You  bear  the  olive-branch  of  peace,  and  love  and 
happiness  are  before  us." 

But  as  he  was  about  to  press  her  still  more  closely  to 
his  heart,  a  shudder  pervaded  her  whole  frame.  "  Oh, 
now,  I  recollect,"  she  cried,  vehemently;  "  now  I  know 
all!  I  was  alone  in  the  garden.  There  came  those  ter- 
rible men.  They  seized  me  with  their  rude  hands. 


192  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

They  wounded  my  heart  with  their  horrible  looks,  which 
made  me  shudder.  Whither  have  they  brought  me? 
where  am  I?" 

"  You  are  with  me/'  said  Feodor,  carrying  her  hand 
to  his  lips. 

For  the  first  time,  then,  she  looked  at  him — for  the 
first  time,  she  recognized  him.  A  deep  blush  of  joy  suf- 
fused her  cheeks,  and  an  angelic  smile  beamed  on  her 
lips.  She  felt,  she  knew  nothing  further  than  that  her 
lover  was  at  her  side,  that  he  was  not  dead — that  he  was 
not  lost  to  her.  With  an  outcry  of  delight  she  threw 
herself  into  his  arms,  and  greeted  the  lost,  the  found 
one,  with  warm  and  happy  words  of  love.  She 
raised  her  eyes  and  hands  to  heaven.  "  Oh,  my  God, 
he  lives! "  cried  she,  exultingly.  "  I  thank  Thee, 
God,  I  thank  Thee.  Thou  hadst  pity  on  my  suffer- 
ings." 

"Love  protected  me,"  said  Feodor,  gazing  at  her 
passionately.  "  Love  saved  me  by  a  miracle.  Still  more 
miraculously,  it  brings  you  to  my  arms.  Fear  not,  Elise. 
No  other  eye  than  mine  has  seen  you.  No  one  knows 
your  name.  That  sweet  secret  is  only  known  to  Love 
and  ourselves." 

Elise  trembled.  This  imprudent  speech  woke  her 
out  of  the  stupor  which  had  so  long  had  possession  of 
her;  it  recalled  her  to  the  world,  and  dispelled  the 
charm  which  his  presence,  his  looks,  and  his  words  had 
thrown  around  her.  She  was  now  aroused,  and  hurried 
from  a  state  of  dreamy  delight  to  one  of  cruel  and 
dread  reality.  The  ray  of  joy  faded  from  her  cheek, 
the  smile  died  on  her  lips,  and,  extricating  herself  forci- 
bly from  his  arms,  she  stood  before  him  in  her  pride  and 
anger.  "  Feodor,"  said  she,  terrified,  "  you  sent  those 
fearful  men!  You  caused  me  to  be  kidnapped!  "  With 


THE  MERCHANT. OF  BERLIN.  193 

an  angry,  penetrating  glance,  she  looked  at  Feodor,  who 
sank  his  eyes  in  confusion  to  the  ground. 

As  she  saw  this,  she  smiled  contemptuously,  and  her 
injured  maiden  honor  overcame  her  love  and  tenderness. 
"  Ah!  now  I  understand!  "  said  she,  with  cutting  scorn. 
"  I  have  been  told  of  the  hunt  after  human  beings  which 
is  carried  on  in  the  town.  Colonel  Feodor  von  Brenda 
plays  a  worthy  part  in  this  game!  " 

Feodor  wished  to  approach  her  and  take  her  hand, 
but  she  repulsed  him  sternly.  "  Do  not  touch  me," 
cried  she,  haughtily;  "  do  not  seek  to  take  my  hand. 
You  are  no  longer  he  whom  I  love.  You  are  a  kidnap- 
per. But  let  me  tell  you,  though  you  have  compelled  my 
body  to  suffer  this  dishonorable  deed,  yet  my  soul  re- 
mains free,  and  that  despises  you!  " 

It  was  a  splendid  sight  to  see  her  in  her  noble  wrath, 
which  seemed  to  elevate  her  whole  frame,  and  drive  a 
deep  glow  to  her  cheeks. 

Feodor  looked  at  her  with  ardent  gaze.  Never  had 
he  seen  her  so  fascinating,  so  charmingly  beautiful. 
Even  her  wrath  delighted  him,  for  it  was  a  token  of  her 
purity  and  innocence. 

He  wanted  again  to  draw  near  to  her,  to  take  her  to 
his  heart,  but  she  drew  back  in  pride  and  anger.  "  Go," 
said  she,  "  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  a  man  who  violates 
the  most  sacred  laws  of  human  honor,  and  like  a  vile 
thief  sneaks  in  to  destroy  innocence."  Her  voice  failed 
her,  her  eyes  rilled  with  tears,  but  she  shook  them  from 
her.  "  I  weep,"  said  she,  "  but  not  for  grief,  nor  yet  for 
love;  anger  it  is  alone  which  extorts  tears  from  me,  and 
they  are  bitter — far  more  bitter  than  death."  And  as  she 
thus  spoke,  she  pressed  her  hands  to  her  face,  and  wept 
bitterly. 

Feodor  passed  his  arm  gently  around  her  trembling 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  BEKLfN. 

form.  In  the  excess  of  her  grief  she  did  not  feel  it. 
"  No,  Elise,"  said  he,  "  you  weep  because  you  love  me. 
You  weep  because  you  think  me  unworthy  of  your  love. 
But  before  you  condemn  me,  listen  to  me.  I  swear  to 
you  by  the  memory  of  my  mother,  the  only  woman  in 
whom,  besides  yourself,  I  ever  believed,  that  I  had  no 
part  in  this  treachery  which  has  been  committed  toward 
you.  You  must  believe  me,  Elise!  Look  at  me,  be- 
loved one — I  can  bear  your  looks.  I  dare  raise  my  eyes 
to  you.  I  am  not  guilty  of  this  crime." 

Her  hands  glided  slowly  from  her  face,  and  she 
looked  at  him.  Their  looks  met,  and  rested  for  a  long 
time  on  each  other.  She  read  in  his  eyes  that  he  was 
innocent,  for  love  is  confiding,  and  she  loved  him.  With 
a  charming  smile  she  extended  both  hands  toward  him, 
and  he  read  in  her  looks  the  words  of  love  and  tenderness 
which  her  timid  lips  did  not  dare  give  expression  to. 

Feodor  drew  her  warmly  to  his  heart.  "You  be- 
lieve me,"  cried  he,  passionately;  and  as  he  raised  her 
with  irresistible  strength  in  his  arms,  he  murmured 
low,  "  Now  let  us  enjoy  the  sacred  hour  of  happiness 
without  inquiring  what  divinity  we  have  to  thank 
for  it." 

But  the  instinct  of  modesty  prevailed  over  love. 
"  No,"  cried  she,  as  she  struggled  out  of  his  arms,  trem- 
bling with  excitement — "no,  Feodor,  it  is  no  hour  of 
happiness  in  which  my  honor  and  good  name  are  to  be 
buried — no  hour  of  happiness  when  scandal  can  tell 
from  mouth  to  mouth  how  a  German  maiden  let  herself 
be  carried  into  the  Kussian  camp,  and  shamelessly  rushed 
into  the  arms  of  dishonor;  for  so  will  they  tell  it,  Feodor. 
No  one  will  believe  that  you  had  no  hand  in  this  outrage. 
The  world  never  believes  in  innocence.  Whoever  is 
accused  is  already  condemned,  even  if  the  judge's  sen- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  195 

tence  should  a  thousand  times  pronounce  him  innocent. 
No,  they  will  point  at  me  with  the  finger  of  scorn,  and 
with  an  exultant  laugh  will  say  to  each  other,  '  Behold 
the  barefaced  woman  who  deserted  to  the  Kussians,  and 
revelled  with  her  lover,  while  her  native  town  was  groan- 
ing amidst  blood  and  tears.  Look  at  the  rich  man's 
child,  who  is  so  poor  in  honor! ' 

Deeply  moved  by  her  own  words,  she  drew  herself  up 
still  more  in  the  power  of  her  dignity  and  innocence,  and 
gazed  at  Feodor  with  flashing  eyes.  "  Count  Feodor  von 
Brenda,"  cried  she,  firmly,  "  will  you  allow  your  bride 
to  be  suspected  and  defamed?  that  a  stain  should  be  al- 
lowed to  rest  upon  the  name  of  her  who  is  to  become  your 
wife?" 

In  her  proud  excitement  she  did  not  perceive  the 
rapid  motion  of  his  lips,  nor  the  blush  of  shame  which 
suffused  his  cheeks;  she  remarked  not  that  he  cast  down 
his  eyes  and  spoke  to  her  with  broken  and  trembling 
voice. 

"  Elise,"  said  he,  "  you  are  beside  yourself.  Your 
excited  fancy  paints  every  thing  to  you  in  sombre  colors. 
Who  will  dare  to  defame  you?  Who  knows  that  you  are 
here?" 

"  But  the  whole  world  will  know  it.  Scandal  has  a 
thousand  tongues  to  spread  evil  reports.  Feodor,  let  me 
go.  You  say  that  no  one  knows  that  I  am  here;  then 
no  one  will  know  that  I  go.  Be  merciful  with  me, 
let  me  go! " 

"  No,"  cried  he,  almost  rudely.  "  I  will  not  let  you. 
You  ask  what  is  impossible.  I  were  a  fool  if  I  were  thus 
madly  to  cast  the  happiness  away  which  I  would  fain 
purchase  with  my  heart's  blood.  Twice  have  I  risked 
my  life  to  see  you,  to  be  able  to  kneel  for  one  happy, 
undisturbed  hour  at  your  feet,  and  gaze  on  you,  and  in- 


196  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

toxicate  myself  with  that  gaze.  And  now  you  ask  that 
I  shall  voluntarily  give  up  my  happiness  and  you!  " 

"  My  happiness!  my  happiness!  yes,  even  my  life  I 
ask  you  to  preserve  by  letting  me  go  hence,  and  return 
to  my  father's  house,"  cried  Elise,  eagerly. 

As  she  perceived  that  he  shook  his  head  in  refusal, 
and  met  his  wild,  passionate  looks,  reading  in  them  that 
she  might  expect  no  mercy  from  him,  her  anger  flashed 
forth.  Imploringly  she  raised  her  arms  to  heaven,  and 
her  voice  sounded  full  and  powerful:  "  Feodor,  I  swear 
to  you  by  God  in  heaven,  and  the  memory  of  my  mother, 
that  I  will  only  become  the  wife  of  that  man  whom  I 
follow  of  my  free  will  out  of  the  house  of  my  father. 
I  am  capable  of  leaving  my  father's  house;  but  it  must 
be  my  own  free  choice,  my  free  determination." 

"  No,"  said  Feodor,  wildly;  "  I  will  not  let  you  go. 
You  are  mine,  and  you  shall  remain." 

Elise  drew  nearer  to  him  with  bashful  tenderness. 
"  You  must  let  me  go  now,  in  order  one  of  these  days 
to  demand  your  pure  wife  from  out  her  father's  house," 
said  she.  There  was  something  so  touching,  so  confid- 
ing in  her  manner  that  Feodor,  against  his  will,  felt  him- 
self overcome  by  it;  but  even  while  submitting  to  this 
fascination  he  was  almost  ashamed  of  himself,  and  deep 
sadness  filled  his  soul. 

Silently  they  stood  opposite  to  each  other,  Elise  look- 
ing at  him  with  tenderness,  yet  with  fear — he  his  head 
bowed,  wrestling  with  his  own  heart.  Suddenly  this 
silence  was  interrupted  by  a  loud  and  violent  knocking 
at  the  door.  The  voices  of  his  wild  companions  and  mad 
comrades  were  calling  out  loudly  Feodor's  name,  and 
demanding,  with  vehement  impetuosity,  the  opening  of 
the  closed  door.  Feodor  turned  pale.  The  thought 
that  his  Elise,  this  young,  innocent,  and  modest  girl, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  197 

should  be  exposed  to  the  insolent  gaze  of  his  riotous  com- 
panions, irritated  him. 

Casting  his  angry  glances  around  the  room  to  seek 
for  a  hiding-place  in  which  to  conceal  Elise,  he  perceived 
that  this  was  in  vain,  that  no  escape  was  possible.  Sadly 
he  sank  his  head  upon  his  breast,  and  sighed.  Elise 
understood  him;  she  comprehended  her  disconsolate  and 
desperate  position. 

"  There  is  then  no  place  where  I  can  hide  myself?  " 
said  she  in  despair.  "  Shame  awaits  me.  The  whole 
world  will  know  that  I  am  here!  " 

Outside  the  officers  raged  still  louder,  and  demanded 
with  more  violent  cries  the  opening  of  the  door.  Feodor 
still  looked  around  him  for  a  secret  place.  Nowhere 
was  there  a  possibility  of  hiding  her,  or  letting  her  es- 
cape unnoticed.  His  infuriated  companions  threatened 
to  break  the  door  in. 

Feodor  now  with  determination  seized  the  large 
shawl  which  had  previously  enveloped  Elise's  form,  and 
threw  it  over  her  face.  "  Well  then,"  said  he,  "  let  them 
come;  but  woe  to  him  who  touches  this  cloth!  " 

He  pressed  the  veiled  maiden  down  in  a  chair,  and, 
hastening  to  the  door,  drew  back  the  bolt. 


CHAPTER   IX. 

MISTRESS    OR   MAID. 

As  Feodor  opened  the  door,  his  comrades  rushed 
screaming  and  laughing  uproariously  into  the  room, 
spying  round  eagerly  for  the  poor  woman,  the  noble 
game  which  they  had  hunted  down. 


198  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

When  they  perceived  Elise  seated  in  a  chair,  veiled 
and  motionless  just  as  they  had  left  her,  they  gave  vent 
to  a  cry  of  delight,  and  began  to  explain  to  the  colonel, 
in  a  most  confused  jumble,  often  interrupted  by  bursts 
of  laughter  and  merry  ejaculations,  the  cause  of  their 
stormy  interruption.  A  young  man,  they  said,  had  just 
come  inquiring  after  a  young  lady  who  had  been  carried 
off  by  the  Cossacks.  He  had  insisted  upon  seeing  Colo- 
nel Feodor  von  Brenda,  in  order  to  offer  a  ransom  for 
the  captive  lady. 

"We  have  come  to  inform  you  of  this,"  said  Lieu- 
tenant von  Matusch,  "  so  that  you  may  not  let  her  go 
too  cheap.  This  is  the  richest  haul  we  have  made  yet." 

"  The  daughter  of  the  rich  Gotzkowsky! "  cried  an- 
other officer. 

"  She'll  have  to  pay  a  tremendous  ransom,"  shouted 
Major  von  Fritsch. 

Feodor  exclaimed,  with  assumed  astonishment,  "  That 
woman  there  the  daughter  of  Gotzkowsky!  Why,  don't 
you  know,  my  friends,  that  I  lived  for  a  long  time  in  Ber- 
lin, and  am  intimately  acquainted  with  the  beautiful 
and  brilliant  daughter  of  the  rich  Gotzkowsky?  I  can 
assure  you  that  they  do  not  resemble  each  other  in  a 
single  feature." 

The  officers  looked  at  one  another  with  amazemeni 
and  incredulity.  "  She  is  not  Gotzkowsky's  daughter? 
But  the  young  man  told  us  that  he.  came  from  Mr.  Gotz- 
kowsky." 

"  And  from  that  you  draw  the  conclusion  that  this  is 
his  daughter  whom  you  have  caught,"  cried  Feodor, 
laughing.  "  Where  is  this  man?  " 

Lieutenant  von  Matusch  opened  the  door,  and  on  the 
threshold  appeared  the  serious  figure  of  Bertram.  He 
had  fulfilled  the  TOW  which  he  had  made  to  himself,  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  199 

carefully  and  attentively  watched  and  guarded  every  step 
of  Elise;  and  while  Gotzkowsky  was  absent  from  home 
night  and  day  faithfully  serving  his  country,  Bertram 
had  heen  a  vigilant  sentinel  over  his  daughter.  Indeed, 
Gotzkowsky's  house  had  been,  to  all  appearance,  perfect- 
ly safe;  it  was  the  sanctuary  and  refuge  of  all  the  un- 
fortunate, the  only  secure  place  where  they  could  bestow 
their  valuables.  Eussian  sentinels  stood  before  the 
house,  and  Tottleben's  adjutant  had  his  residence  in  it. 
But  this  security  only  applied  to  the  house.  As  long  as 
Elise  kept  herself  within-doors,  Bertram  had  no  fear. 
But  there  was  the  large  garden  in  which  she  loved  to 
roam  for  hours  together,  and  especially  her  favorite  re- 
sort at  the  extreme  end  of  the  same,  not  far  from  the 
wall,  which  was  so  easy  to  climb. 

Bertram  had  not  ventured  to  restrain  Elise  from 
visiting  this  solitary  and  secluded  spot,  but  he  had  fol- 
lowed her  on  her  visits  to  it.  There,  hidden  behind 
some  tree  he  had,  with  the  patience  and  perseverance 
of  which  love  alone  is  capable,  watched  the  young  girl, 
who  was  neither  desirous  of  nor  grateful  for  guardian- 
ship. This  very  day  he  had  followed  her  softly  and 
unperceived  into  the  garden.  Then,  when  he  had  as- 
certained whither  she  directed  her  steps,  he  had  re- 
turned into  the  house  to  complete  some  important  busi- 
ness of  Gotzkowsky.  But  impelled  by  anxious  and  un- 
accountable restlessness,  he  had  hastened  back  into  the 
garden;  at  a  distance  he  heard  Elise's  cry  for  help,  and, 
rushing  forward,  had  come  up  just  in  time  to  see  her 
raised  over  the  wall  by  the  Cossacks. 

Stunned  by  horror  at  this  sight,  Bertram  stood  for 
a  moment  motionless.  He  then  felt  but  one  desire,  one 
resolve,  and  that  was — to  rescue  her.  He  hurried  to  the 
house  for  the  purpose  of  proceeding  to  General  Tottleben 


200  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  invoking  his  assistance  and  support.  But  a  sudden 
and  painful  thought  arrested  his  steps. 

Suppose  that  Elise  had  not  gone  against  her  will? 
Suppose  that  this  had  been  a  preconcerted  abduction, 
to  which  the  semblance  of  violence  had  only  been  given, 
in  order,  in  case  of  failure,  to  maintain  Elise's  reputation 
free  from  stain? 

With  a  sigh  of  anguish  he  recalled  to  mind  when 
Elise  had  hidden  her  lover  in  her  bedchamber  that  night 
when  Gotzkowsky  had  delivered  Feodor  over  to  the  Aus- 
trians.  Since  then  father  and  daughter  had  not  met,  and 
no  word  of  reproach  had  passed  Elise's  lips.  But  Ber- 
tram understood  that  Gotzkowsky's  cruel  and  relentless 
sacrifice  of  her  lover  had  forever  estranged  the  heart  of 
his  daughter  from  him;  that  this  hard  though  just  deed 
had  torn  asunder  the  last  link  which  bound  her  to  him. 

Elise  could  have  learned  just  as  well  as  Bertram  had 
that  Feodor  had  been  accidentally  saved.  Her  lover 
himself  could  have  sent  her  this  information,  and  she, 
who  in  the  bitterness  of  her  grief  had  torn  herself  loose 
from  her  father,  might  not  have  had  the  strength  to 
withstand  his  ardent  prayers.  Perhaps  in  her  sense 
of  bereavement,  trusting  to  her  love,  she  might  have 
found  the  sad  courage  to  brave  not  only  her  father,  but 
the  judgment  and  scorn  of  the  world,  in  order  to  be 
united  to  her  lover. 

Such  thoughts  as  these  arrested  Bertram's  steps,  and 
compelled  him  to  reflection.  Only  one  thing  was  posi- 
tive— he  must  save  her  at  every  hazard,  even  against  her 
will,  even  if  he  should  reap,  as  the  sole  reward  of  his 
devoted  love,  her  aversion',  he  must  save  her  from  her 
own  passionate,  foolish  heart,  or  from  the  wild  lust  of  the 
unprincipled  man  to  whom  she  trusted  her  innocence, 
her  youth,  and  beauty. 


THE  MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN.  201 

But  this  duty  he  had  to  perform  alone;  he  dared  not 
trust  any  one  with  his  secret,  for  fear  of  thereby  defeat- 
ing the  object  he  had  in  view,  and,  instead  of  saving, 
bringing  disgrace  upon  her.  His  resolve  was  formed. 
He  must  seek  her  out.  He  must  penetrate  to  where  she 
was,  even  if  hid  behind  a  wall  of  Russian  soldiers.  Faith- 
ful and  unselfish  as  ever,  she  should  find  him  at  her  side, 
ready  to  protect  her  against  every  attack,  every  danger, 
even  from  her  own  inexperience  or  the  reckless  passion 
of  her  lover.  Especially  above  all  things,  her  abduction 
must  remain  a  secret.  To  her  maidens,  therefore,  Ber- 
tram said,  that  their  young  mistress  had  withdrawn  into 
her  room,  and  shut  herself  in,  in  order,  after  so  many 
sleepless  nights,  to  enjoy  a  little  rest.  The  same  in- 
formation he  left  behind  for  Gotzkowsky,  and,  provid- 
ing himself  with  weapons,  he  betook  himself  to  the 
search  for  Elise.  In  the  first  place,  he  naturally  di- 
rected his  steps  to  the  dwelling  of  Colonel  von  Brenda. 
Here  he  learned  that  the  latter  was  not  at  home,  but  had 
gone  to  an  entertainment  at  the  mess-room  of  his  regi- 
ment. Thither  he  hastened,  firmly  resolved  to  over- 
come all  obstacles,  and  in  spite  of  every  refusal  to  see 
the  colonel,  and  read  in  his  countenance  whether  he 
were  an  accomplice  of  the  crime  committed,  or  whether 
Elise  had  followed  him  of  her  own  free  will. 

At  first,  he  had  been  obstinately  refused  admittance; 
then  in  his  despair  and  anguish  he  had  made  use  of  Gotz- 
kowsky's  name,  a  golden  key  to  open  the  doors,  as  he 
well  knew.  In  fact,  scarcely  had  the  gold-greedy  Rus- 
sian officers  ascertained  that  the  young  stranger  came 
as  a  messenger  from  Gotzkowsky  and  wished  to  inquire 
of  Count  von  Brenda,  after  a  young  lady  who  had  been 
carried  off  by  the  Cossacks,  than  with  a  yell  of  delight 
they  rushed  toward  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  were 


202  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

Feodor  and  the  captured  maiden.  Bertram  had,  there- 
fore, to  thank  the  avarice  of  the  Russian  officers  that  the 
door  was  opened  and  he  was  allowed  to  enter. 

As  Bertram  appeared  on  the  threshold  of  the  room, 
a  scream  escaped  the  lips  of  the  female,  and  he  was  en- 
abled, notwithstanding  the  concealment,  to  recognize 
her  whom  he  sought.  His  heart  was  convulsed  with 
pain,  and  his  impulse  for  a  moment  was,  to  rush  upon 
this  audacious,  dissolute  young  man  who  stood  next  to 
Elise,  to  murder  him,  and  revenge  in  his  blood  the  dis- 
grace he  had  brought  upon  her.  But  remembering  the 
sacred  duty  he  had  undertaken  of  protecting  Elise  and 
concealing  her  flight  as  far  as  possible,  he  controlled  his 
anger  and  grief,  and  forced  himself  to  appear  calm  and 
collected. 

Elise,  in  the  mean  while,  with  joyful  emotion  recog- 
nized Bertram.  His  unexpected  and  unlooked-for  ap- 
pearance did  not  surprise  her,  it  seemed  so  natural  to 
her  that  whenever  danger  threatened  he  should  appear 
as  her  protector  and  savior.  She  had  such  confidence  in 
Bertram's  appearance  whenever  she  stood  in  need  of  him. 
that  when  she  saw  him,  she  looked  upon  herself  as  saved, 
and  protected  from  every  danger  which  threatened  her. 
She  motioned  Feodor  to  her  side,  and  with  a  touch  of 
triumphant  pride,  said  to  him,  "  It  is  Bertram,  the  friend 
of  my  youth.  He  has  risked  his  life  to  save  me  from 
dishonor."  Feodor  felt  the  reproof  which  lay  in  the 
intonation  of  these  words,  and  his  brow  grew  dark.  But 
he  overcame  this  momentary  irritation,  and  turning,  to 
Bertram,  who  was  approaching  him  with  a  firm  and  de- 
termined step,  asked  him,  "Well,  sir,  whom  do  you 
seek?  " 

"A  young  girl  who  has  been  carried  off  by  force," 
replied  Bertram,  and  he  regarded  the  young  man  with 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN.  203 

angry  looks.  But  Feodor  met  his  glance  with  firmness 
and  composure.  "  It  is  true,"  said  he,  "  such  an  outrage 
has  been  committed;  some  Cossacks  kidnapped  a  young 
girl  in  a  garden  and  brought  her  here.  I  myself  will 
inform  the  general  of  this  dishonorable  deed,  for  you  un- 
derstand, sir,  that  this  outrage  is  an  insult  to  us  as  well 
as  to  yourself.  I  have  promised  my  protection  to  this 
young  person,  and  I  am  ready  to  defend  her  against  any 
one  who  dares  to  touch  her  honor  or  to  doubt  her  virtue. 
Come,  now,  sir,  and  see  whether  this  be  the  same  young 
girl  whom  you  seek." 

He  stepped  toward  Bertram,  and  as  he  led  him  to 
Elise,  he  whispered  rapidly  in  a  low  tone.  "  Be  silent, 
and  do  not  betray  her  name,  for  Elise's  honor  is  at 
stake." 

He  raised  the  veil,  and,  pointing  to  Elise's  abashed 
and  blushing  countenance,  he  asked,  with  a  derisive 
laugh,  "  Well,  now,  do  you  recognize  her?  Will  you 
swear  that  this  is  Gotzkowsky's  daughter?  " 

Bertram  looked  at  him  with  assumed  surprise. 
"  Gotzkowsky's  daughter? "  asked  he,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  Why,  it  is  the  young  lady  herself  who  sent 
me,  and  no  one  is  looking  for  her." 

Colonel  Feodor  turned  with  a  laugh  of  triumph  to- 
ward his  comrades.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  so?  "  cried  he. 
"  You  credulous  fools  were  hoping  to  get  half  a  million 
ransom,  and  I  have  been  bargaining  with  her  for  the 
last  hour  for  a  hundred  dollars.  She  swears,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  that  she  is  not  worth  a  hundred  pence. 
Gotzkowsky's  daughter,  indeed!  Do  you  imagine  that 
she  goes  about  in  a  plain  white  dress,  without  any  orna- 
ment or  any  thing  elegant  about  her?  She  is  just  as 
fond  of  dress  as  our  own  princesses  and  pretty  women, 
and,  like  them,  the  daughter  of  the  rich  Gotzkowsky  is 


204  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

never  visible  except  in  silk  and  velvet,  with  pearls  and 
diamonds.  Oh!  I  would  like  myself  to  catch  the  rnil- 
lionnaire's  daughter,  for  then  we  might  bargain  for  a  de- 
cent ransom." 

"  But  who,  then,  is  this  woman?  "  roared  the  disap- 
pointed officers.  "  Why  does  the  rich  Gotzkowsky  send 
after  her,  if  she  is  not  his  daughter?  " 

"Who  is  she?"  cried  Feodor,  laughing.  "Well, 
I  will  tell  you,  as  you  attach  so  much  importance  to  it. 
You  have  been  served  like  t,he  seekers  after  hidden  treas- 
ure. You  have  been  seeking  for  gold,  and,  instead,  you 
have  only  found  coals  to  burn  your  fingers.  You  sought 
after  the  millionnaire,  the  rich  heiress,  and,  instead  of 
her,  you  have  only  caught  her — chambermaid." 

"  A  chambermaid! "  growled  out  his  comrades,  and 
turning  their  dark,  lowering  looks  on  Bertram,  they  in- 
quired of  him  whether  this  woman  were  only  a  chamber- 
maid in  Gotzkowsky's  house,  and  assailed  him  with  re- 
proaches and  curses  because  he  had  deluded  them  into 
the  belief  that  Gotzkowsky's  daughter  had  been  cap- 
tured. 

"  If  we  had  not  thought  so,  we  would  not  have  let 
you  in,"  cried  Lieutenant  von  Matusch.  "  It  was  not 
worth  while  making  so  much  fuss  about  a  little  chamber- 
maid." 

"  It  was  just  for  that  very  reason,"  replied  Bertram, 
"  and  because  I  knew  that  you  would  not  otherwise  help 
me,  that  I  let  you  believe  it  was  Gotzkowsky's  daughter 
whom  you  had  captured;  otherwise  you  would  never 
have  let  me  come  near  Colonel  von  Brenda.  And  Made- 
moiselle Gotzkowsky  had  expressly  directed  me  to  apply 
to  that  gentleman,  and  I  did  so.  You  can  understand 
my  doing  so,  when  I  inform  you  that  this  young  girl  is 
my  sister! " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  205 

Feodor  turned  himself  to  Elise  with  an  expression 
of  anger  on  his  countenance.  "  Is  this  true?  " 

"  It  is  true! "  cried  she,  reaching  her  hand  out  to 
Bertram,  with  a  look  of  heartfelt  gratitude.  "  He  is  my 
brother,  my  faithful  brother!  " 

But,  as  she  read  in  Feodor's  darkened  countenance 
the  marks  of  ill-concealed  anger  and  jealousy,  she  turned 
toward  her  lover  with  a  rare,  sweet  smile.  "  Oh,"  said 
she,  "  there  is  nothing  nobler,  nothing  more  sacred  and 
unselfish,  than  the  love  of  a  brother." 

Feodor's  searching  look  seemed  to  penetrate  into  the 
inmost  recesses  of  her  heart.  Perhaps  he  read  all  the 
love,  innocence,  anc  strength  that  lay  therein,  for  his 
brow  cleared  up,  and  his  looks  resumed  their  open 
cheerfulness.  Quickly  he  took  Bertram's  hand  and  laid 
it  in  Elise's.  "  Well,  then,"  said  he,  "  you  happy  pair, 
take  each  other's  hands,  and  thank  God  that  the  danger 
is  over.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  young  and  pretty 
girls — we  only  want  rich  ones.  Go!  " 

"  No,  no,"  crie  1  the  officers,  "  not  at  all,  not  without 
ransom! "  Saying  which,  they  pressed  noisily  and 
angrily  nearer,  raising  their  clinched  fists.  "  She  must 
pay,  or  we  will  keep  her!  " 

"Dare  one  of  )ou  touch  her?"  cried  Feodor,  draw- 
ing his  sword,  and  placing  himself  in  front  of  Elise. 

"  I  have  come  to  fetch  my  sister,"  said  Bertram,  turn- 
ing to  the  officers,  "  but  I  knew  very  well  that  you  would 
not  let  her  go  unless  her  ransom  were  paid.  I  therefore 
brought  all  my  little  portion  with  me.  Take  this  purse 
full  of  ducats,  and  let  it  pay  for  her." 

A  cry  of  triumph  was  the  answer  from  the  soldiers 

as  they  drew  Bertram  toward  the  table  that  he  might 

count  out  the  money.     While  they  were   dividing  it 

among  themselves,  talking  loudly  and  laughing  merrily 

14 


206  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Feodor  remained  standing  at  Elise's  side,  neither  daring 
to  break  the  impressive  silence.  Their  souls  communed 
with  each  other,  and  they  needed  not  words  nor  outward 
signs.  At  last,  after  a  long  pause,  Feodor  asked — 

"  Are  you  satisfied  now,  Elise?  " 

She  answered  him  with  a  sweet  smile,  "  I  am  thine 
forever! " 

"  And  will  you  never  forget  this  hour?  " 

"  I  will  not  forget  it.  I  will  remember  that  I  have 
sworn  to  follow  you  voluntarily  from  my  father's  house, 
even  against  his  will."  And  letting  her  blushing  face 
droop  upon  her  breast,  she  whispered,  in  a  voice  scarcely 
audible — "  I  await  you!  " 

But  these  words,  low  as  they  had  been  spoken,  reached 
the  ears  of  two  men  at  the  same  time.  Not  only 
Colonel  Feodor,  but  also  Bertram,  who  had  drawn  close 
up  to  Elise  again,  had  overheard  them.  The  first  they 
filled  with  emotions  of  delight,  the  other  with  pain- 
ful anguish.  Bertram,  however,  was  accustomed  to 
wrestle  with  his  love,  and  smother  the  expression  of  his 
pain,  under  the  appearance  of  quiet  composure.  He  ap- 
proached Elise,  and  offered  her  his  hand,  said,  "  Come 
sister,  let  us  go." 

"  Yes,  go,"  said  the  colonel,  with  the  proud  superior- 
ity of  a  preferred  rival.  He  extended  his  hand  to  Ber- 
tram, and  continued,  "  Be  a  good  brother  to  her,  and 
conduct  her  safely  home." 

Bertram's  countenance,  usually  so  quiet  and  calm, 
assumed  for  an  instant  an  offended  and  almost  con- 
temptuous air,  and  bitter  words  were  on  his  tongue;  but 
his  angry  eye  accidentally  met  Elise's,  anxiously  and  im- 
ploringly directed  toward  him.  He  could  not  master 
himself  sufficiently  to  accept  Feodor's  hand,  but  at  least 
he  could  control  his  anger.  "  Come,  sister,"  said  he, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  207 

gently  leading  Elise  toward  the  door  which  the  colonel 
indicated  to  him  by  a  silent  nod. 

Elise  had  not  the  courage  to  leave  her  lover  without 
a  word  of  farewell;  or  rather,  she  was  cruel  enough  to 
inflict  this  torture  on  Bertram.  Stretching  both  hands 
toward  him,  she  said  softly,  "  I  thank  you,  Feodor;  God 
and  love  will  reward  you  for  having  greatly  and  nobly 
conquered  yourself." 

Feodor  whispered  to  her,  "  And  will  you  remember 
your  vow  ?  " 

"  Ever  and  always!  " 

In  bending  over  to  kiss  her  hand,  he  murmured, 
"  Expect  me,  then,  to-morrow." 

"  I  will  expect  you,"  said  she,  as  she  passed  him  on 
her  way  to  the  door. 

No  word  of  their  whispered  conversation  escaped  the 
attentive  ear  of  Bertram;  and  he  understood  it,  for  he 
loved  her,  and  knew  how  to  read  her  thoughts  in  her 
looks  and  her  eyes.  As  he  followed  her  through  the 
long  corridor,  and  her  light,  graceful  figure  floated  be- 
fore him  like  a  vision,  a  deep,  despairing  melancholy 
settled  on  his  heart,  and  he  murmured  to  himself,  "  To- 
morrow she  expects  him! "  But  with  desperate  deter- 
mination he  continued  to  himself,  "  Well,  then,  woe  to 
him  if  I  find  him  going  astray!  " 


CHAPTER   X. 

AN   UNEXPECTED   ALLY. 


THANKS  to  Bertram's  forethought  and  caution,  he 
had  succeeded  in  restoring  Elise  to  her  father's  house, 
without  her  absence  having  been  remarked,  or  having  oc- 


208  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

casioned  any  surmise.  In  the  close  carriage  in  which 
they  performed  the  journey  home,  they  had  not  ex- 
changed a  word;  but  leaning  back  on  the  cushions,  each 
had  rest  and  repose  after  the  stormy  and  exciting  scenes 
they  had  just  passed  through.  Elise's  hand  still  rested 
on  Bertram's.,  perhaps  unconsciously,  perhaps  because 
she  had  not  the  courage  to  withdraw  it  from  him  to 
whom  she  owed  so  much  gratitude. 

Bertram  felt  the  feverish  warmth  of  this  trembling 
hand,  and  as  he  looked  at  her  and  remarked  the  paleness 
of  her  cheeks,  the  painful  twitching  of  her  lips,  he  was 
overcome  by  a  feeling  of  deep  wretchedness,  of  pitying 
sadness,  and  was  obliged  to  turn  his  head  away  to  con- 
ceal his  tears  from  her. 

When  the  carriage  stopped,  and  he  accompanied  her 
into  the  house,  Elise  pressed  his  hand  more  firmly,  and 
turned  her  gaze  upon  him  with  a  look  of  deep  gratitude, 
which  made  his  heart  palpitate  with  a  mixture  of  de- 
light and  anguish.  He  wished  to  withdraw,  he  wished 
to  let  her  hand  go,  but  she  held  his  still  more  firmly 
clasped,  and  drew  him  gently  up  the  steps.  Powerless 
with  emotion,  he  followed  her. 

As  they  entered  the  hall  which  led  to  her  room,  she 
cast  a  searching  look  around  to  see  if  any  one  were  pres- 
ent, and  perceiving  that  they  two  were  alone,  she  turned 
toward  Bertram  with  an  indescribable  expression.  She 
tried  to  speak,  but  the  words  died  on  her  lips,  a  deep 
glow  suffused  her  cheeks,  and  completely  overpowered, 
and  giddy  from  the  tumult  of  her  feelings,  she  leaned 
her  head  on  her  friend's  shoulder. 

Gently  he  passed  his  arm  around  her  delicate,  trem- 
bling figure,  and  his  eyes  beamed  with  a  pure  emo- 
tion. In  the  depth  of  his  heart  he  renewed  to  God  and 
himself  his  vow  of  fidelity  and  self-sacrificing  love  to 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  209 

this  poor  girl  who  lay  on  his  bosom  like  a  drooping 
Mower. 

Suddenly  she  raised  her  head,  her  face  wet  with 
tears  and  convulsed  with  deep  feeling.  "  Bertram,"  she 
eaid,  "  I  know  that  I  am  not  worthy  of  your  noble,  gener- 
ous love,  but  yet,  in  my  crushed  heart,  I  thank  God  that 
I  possess  it.  A  time  may  come  when  all  the  thoughts 
and  feelings  which  now  fill  my  soul  will  appear  as  vain 
dreams  and  illusions.  It  may  be  that  some  day  I  will 
look  upon  life  as  a  grand  delusion,  a  fruitless  striving 
after  happiness  and  repose.  But  never,  my  brother, 
never  will  that  time  come  when  I  can  doubt  your  faith- 
ful, pure  affection.  No  power,  no  other  feeling,  will 
ever  succeed  in  supplanting  the  deep  and  boundless 
gratitude  which  pervades  my  whole  soul  and  binds  me  to 
you  forever." 

And  then  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  felt  the  breath 
of  an  angel  wave  over  his  face;  as  if  the  dream  and 
desire  of  his  whole  life  had  closed  his  lips  in  unexpected 
bliss;  as  if  the  wishes  and  hopes  of  his  ardent  but  re- 
signed heart  had  been  fulfilled,  and  become  a  delightful 
reality. 

When  he  recovered  from  this  sweet  dream,  which  for 
a  moment  robbed  him  of  his  consciousness,  Elise  had 
disappeared.  But  her  kiss  still  glowed  on  his  lips,  and 
seemed  to  bless  and  sanctify  his  whole  life. 

This  stream  of  happiness  lasted  but  for  a  short  time, 
and  Bertram  soon  awoke,  with  a  sad  sigh,  from 'his  de- 
lightful fancies,  to  recall  the  painful  hours  he  had  just 
gone  through,  and  to  say  to  himself  that  Elise  was  lost 
to  him  forever,  that  he  never  could  hope  to  rescue  that 
heart  from  the  lover  to  whom  she  had  yielded  it  with  all 
the  devotion  of  her  ardent  nature.  With  a  sorrowing 
heart  did  he  remember  the  last  words  of  the  lovers.  She 


210  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

had  appointed  a  meeting  for  him  on  the  morrow,  she 
expected  him,  and,  braving  the  anger  of  her  father,  had 
giving  him  a  rendezvous  in  his  house. 

As  Bertram  thought  over  this,  he  paced  the  room 
up  and  down,  panting  with  excitement,  and  wringing 
his  hands.  "  If  Gotzkowsky  knew  this,  he  would  kill 
her,  or  die  himself  of  grief.  Die  of  grief! "  continued 
he,  after  a  pause,  completely  buried  in  his  sad  and  bitter 
thoughts — "  it  is  not  so  easy  to  die  of  grief.  The  sad 
heart  is  tenacious  of  life,  and  sorrow  is  but  a  slow  grave- 
digger.  I  have  heard  that  one  could  die  of  joy,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  just  now,  when  Elise  rewarded  me  with  a 
kiss,  that  I  could  understand  this.  If  she  only  loved 
me,  it  were  a  blessing  of  God  to  die,  conscious  of  her 
love." 

Completely  overcome  by  his  painful  thoughts,  he  re- 
mained for  a  while  motionless  and  sad.  But  he  soon  re- 
covered himself,  and  shook  off  the  dark  cloud  which 
overshadowed  his  soul.  "  I  am  not  born  to  die  such  a 
death.  It  is  my  destiny  not  to  be  happy  myself,  but 
to  save  others  from  unhappiness.  I  feel  and  know  that 
Elise  cannot  be  happy  in  this  love.  A  loving  heart  is 
gifted  with  prophetic  second  sight  to  read  the  future. 
Elise  can  never  be  happy  without  her  father's  blessing, 
and  Gotzkowsky  will  never  give  his  sanction  to  this 
love.  How  can  I  lead  her  past  this  abyss  which  threatens 
to  engulf  her?  May  God,  who  sees  my  heart,  help 
me!  He  knows  how  hopeless  and  disinterested  it  is. 
Help  me,  Father  in  heaven!  show  me  some  way  of 
saving  her  noble  father  from  the  grief  which  lies  before 
him." 

It  seemed  as  if  God  had  heard  his  prayer,  and  taken 
compassion  on  his  pure,  unselfish  spirit,  and  sent  him 
assistance.  A  loud  knocking  at  the  door  aroused  him 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  211 

suddenly  from  his  gloomy  thoughts,  and  he  hastened 
to  open  it. 

A  veiled  lady  stood  there,  wrapped  in  furs,  and  at- 
tended by  a  servant  in  rich  livery.  In  fluent  French, 
which  it  could  be  perceived,  however,  was  not  her  native 
tongue,  she  inquired  whether,  as  she  had  been  told,  Herr 
von  Brink,  Tottleben's  adjutant,  resided  there.  As 
Bertram  answered  this  question  in  the  affirmative,  but 
added,  that  Herr  von  Brink  was  in  the  habit  of  not  re- 
turning from  the  general's  quarters  before  evening,  she 
added,  in  a  decided  tone,  "  Well,  then,  I  will  wait  for 
him." 

Without  deeming  Bertram's  consent  necessary,  she 
entered  the  hall  and  motioned  to  her  servant  to  remain 
at  the  door. 

After  a  pause,  there  ensued  between  the  two  one  of 
those  superficial,  ceremonious  conversations,  the  usual 
refuge  of  those  who  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other; 
but  the  evident  uneasiness  and  confusion  of  the  young 
lady  prevented  her  from  joining  freely  in  it.  Her  large, 
bright  eyes  strayed  restlessly  around  the  room.  A  hectic 
flush  alternated  on  her  cheeks  with  deathly  pallor,  and 
the  smile,  which  occasionally  played  around  her  lips, 
seemed  but  a  painful  expression  of  mental  suffering. 
Suddenly  she  raised  her  head,  as  if  determined  no  longer 
to  bear  this  constraint,  or  submit  to  the  fetters  of  con- 
ventionality. 

"  Sir,"  said  she,  in  a  tone  vibrating  with  excitement 
and  anxiety,  "  you  will  excuse  my  asking  you  a  question, 
on  the  answer  to  which  depends  my  future  happiness, 
my  life,  indeed — to  obtain  which  I  have  travelled  from 
St.  Petersburg  here.  I  have  just  left  my  carriage  in 
which  I  performed  the  journey  from  that  city.  You 
can  therefore  judge  how  important  the  cause  of  this 


212  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

undertaking  is  to  me,  and  what  an  influence  it  may  have 
on  my  whole  existence.  Its  object  lies  in  the  question 
I  am  about  to  put  to  you." 

Bertram  took  pity  on  her  painful  agitation.  "  Ask," 
he  said,  "  and,  on  the  honor  of  a  gentleman,  I  assure  you 
that  your  question  shall  be  answered  truly,  and  that  I 
am  ready  to  serve  you  as  far  as  it  lies  in  my  power." 

"  Are  you  acquainted  with  General  Bachmann's  ad- 
jutant ?  "  asked  she,  shortly  and  hurriedly. 

"  I  am,"  replied  Bertram. 

She  trembled  as  in  an  ague.  "  I  am  come  to  in- 
quire after  a  man  of  whom  I  have  not  heard  for  six 
months.  I  wish  to  know  whether  he  is  alive,  or  only 
dead  to  me/' 

"His  name?"  asked  Bertram,  with  painful  mis- 
giving. 

Her  voice  was  scarcely  audible  as  she  replied: 
"  Colonel  Count  Feodor  von  Brenda,  of  the  regiment 
Bachmann." 

Bertram  was  quite  taken  aback  by  this  unexpected 
turn  of  the  conversation,  and  she  continued  with  great 
excitement,  "  You  do  not  answer!  oh,  have  compassion 
on  me,  and  speak!  Is  he  alive?  " 

"  He  is  alive,  and  is  here,"  answered  Bertram  sadly. 

A  cry  of  delight  escaped  the  lips  of  the  lady.  "  He 
lives,"  she  exclaimed  loudly.  "  God  has  then  heard  my 
prayer,  and  preserved  him  to  me." 

But  suddenly  the  cheerful  smile  on  her  lips  died 
away,  and,  dropping  her  head  on  her  breast,  she  cried, 
"  He  is  alive,  and  only  dead  to  me.  He  is  alive,  and  did 
not  write  me! "  For  a  moment  she  stood  in  this  posi- 
tion, silent  and  depressed;  then  drawing  herself  up  erect, 
her  eyes  sparkling  with  passionate  warmth,  she  said: 
"  Sir,  I  crave  your  pardon  for  a  poor  stranger,  who  hardly 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN. 

knows  what  she  is  doing  or  saying.  1  am  not  acquaint- 
ed with  you,  or  even  your  name,  but  there  is  something 
in  your  noble,  calm  countenance  which  inspires  confi- 
dence." 

Bertram  smiled  sadly.  "  Fellow-sufferers  always  feel 
attracted  to  each  other  by  a  community  of  feeling.  1, 
too,  am  a  sufferer,  and  it  is  God's  will  that  our  sorrows 
should  spring  from  a  common  source.  The  name  you 
have  uttered  is  but  too  well  known  to  me." 

"  You  know  Colonel  Brenda?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  do  know  him,"  answered  Bertram. 

"  The  count  was  at  one  time  a  prisoner  of  war,"  con- 
tinued the  lady.  "  He  visited  this  house  frequently,  for 
I  have  been  told  that  it  belongs  to  Mr.  Gotzkowsky,  of 
whom  the  colonel  wrote  me,  in  the  commencement  of  his 
captivity,  that  he  received  him  most  hospitably." 

"  Did  he  write  you  any  word  of  Gotzkowsky's  hand- 
some daughter? "  asked  Bertram,  looking  inquiringly 
into  the  countenance  of  the  stranger. 

She  shuddered,  and  turned  pale.  "  0  Heaven! " 
she  murmured  low,  "  I  have  betrayed  myself!  " 

Bertram  seized  her  hand,  his  features  evincing  deep 
emotion.  "  Will  you  answer  me  one  question  ?  "  he 
asked,  and  as  she  bowed  her  head  in  silence,  he  pro- 
ceeded— "  is  the  Count  von  Brenda  your  brother?  " 

"  Oh,  sir,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  smile,  "  one  does  not 
suffer  for  a  brother  as  I  have  suffered  for  Feodor.  I  am 
the  Countess  Sandomir,  and  Count  Feodor  is  my  be- 
trothed. The  good  empress  herself  joined  our  hands, 
and  blessed  our  union.  A  short  time  after  our  mar- 
riage the  war  broke  out,  and  deprived  me  of  my  lover 
and  husband.  For  six  months  I  have  had  no  tidings  of 
him,  and,  tortured  by  anxiety  and  apprehension,  I  re- 
solved to  come  myself  to  Germany  to  seek  my  betrothed, 


214  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

either  to  bury  or  nurse  him,  for  I  believed  he  must  be 
sick  or  dead,  as  he  did  not  return  to  me." 

Bertram  offered  in  his  heart  a  prayer  of  gratitude 
to  God.  With  feelings  of  sympathy,  he  then  turned 
his  eyes  on  the  quivering  features  of  the  stranger.  "  Lis- 
ten to  me,"  said  he,  gently.  "  As  you  entered,  I  had  just 
prayed  to  God,  in  the  sulering  and  sadness  of  my  heart, 
to  show  me  some  way  and  means  of  escape  from  the 
labyrinth  in  which  Count  Brenda  has  placed  us.  It 
would  seem  as  if  He  has  had  compassion  on  us  all,  for  at 
the  very  moment  he  sends  you,  the  affianced  bride  of  the 
count,  and  through  you  alone  can  we  be  saved.  We 
must  be  open  and  candid  toward  each  other.  Therefore, 
listen  to  me.  I  love  Gotzkowsky's  daughter — I  love  her 
without  hope,  for  she  loves  another." 

"  And  this  other?  "  asked  she  breathlessly. 

"  She  loves  Count  Feodor  von  Brenda,  and  is  about 
to  escape  with  him." 

"  Escape! "  cried  the  lady,  and  her  voice  sounded 
threatening  and  angry,  and  her  eyes  flashed.  "  Oh! " 
said  she,  gnashing  her  teeth,  "  I  will  prevent  this,  even 
if  I  kill  this  girl!  " 

Bertram  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  Let  us  rather  try 
to  kill  this  love  in  her  heart.  Let  us  contrive  some 
means  of  bringing  your  lover  back  to  you." 

"  Are  there  any  such  means?  "  asked  she,  anxiously. 

Bertram  did  not  answer  immediately.  His  brow  was 
clouded  with  deep  thought,  and  a  heavy  sigh  escaped 
him.  He  then  asked  quickly,  "Will  you  follow  me 
and  enter  into  my  plot?  " 

"I  will,"  she  said  firmly. 

"  Above  all  things,  then,  let  us  be  cautious.  Count 
Feodor  must  have  no  suspicion  that  you  are  here,  for 
your  presence  would  drive  him  to  some  desperate  re- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  215 

solve,  and  I  fear  Elise  loves  him  sufficiently  not  to  draw 
back  from  any  thing." 

"  You  are  very  cruel/'  murmured  the  lady.  "  You 
know  not  what  torture  you  are  preparing  for  me." 

"  If  I  did  not  know  it,  I  would  not  undertake  the 
enterprise  that  is  to  serve  us  both.  I  have  told  you  that 
I  love  Elise,  but  I  have  not  told  you  how  deep  and  sacred 
this  love  is.  I  would  cheerfully  venture  my  life  for  her, 
but  now  I  dare  to  interfere  with  her  love,  and  earn  her 
hatred." 

"  You  have,  then,  already  made  your  plan  ?  " 

"  I  have  made  my  plan,  and  if  you  will  allow  me  to 
escort  you  to  your  hotel,  I  will  disclose  it  to  you,  so  that 
we  may  arrange  the  particulars  together." 

"  Come,  then,"  said  she,  grasping  his  hand  warmly, 
"  and  may  God  assist  us,  and  restore  to  you  your  bride, 
and  to  me  my  lover!  " 


CHAPTEE   XI. 

THE   JEW   EPHRAIM. 

MUCH  sorrow  and  tribulation  were  suffered  during 
this  time  by  the  inhabitants  of  Berlin.  But  the  saddest 
lot  of  all  fell  to  the  Jews,  who  were  threatened  with  the 
greatest  danger.  In  Berlin,  as  everywhere  else,  they 
only  led  a  tolerated,  reviled,  and  derided  existence. 
They  possessed  no  rights,  only  duties;  no  honor,  only 
insults;  no  dignities,  but  humiliation  and  disgrace. 
Now  they  were  called  on  to  give  up  the  last  and  only 
thing  which  shed  some  gleam  of  brightness  on  their 
poor,  down-trodden  existence — their  gold  and  their 
treasures. 


216  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

The  Eussian  commander  had  imposed  upon  the  Jew- 
ish community  in  Berlin  a  special  tax;  and  as  they  hesi- 
tated  ahout  paying  it,  and  declared  themselves  incapable 
of  raising  such  a  large  sum,  General  von  Tottlehen  had 
the  three  elders  of  the  Jews  arrested  and  strictly  guarded 
in  the  Vincenti  House  in  Brueder  Street. 

But  who  could  despise  or  blame  the  poor  Jews  for 
not  wishing  to  give  up  their  gold?  Gold  was  to  them  a 
condition  of  existence,  their  future,  their  happiness, 
their  family.  Gold  enabled  some  of  them  to  raise  them- 
selves from  the  dust  and  degradation  to  which  the  cruel 
severity  of  Christian  charity  had  condemned  them,  and 
to  indulge  in  human  aspirations,  human  happiness,  and 
human  feelings.  Only  those  among  them  who  possessed 
wealth  were  tolerated,  and  dared  hope  by  strenuous  in- 
dustry, ceaseless  activity,  and  fortunate  speculation,  to 
amass  sufficient  fortune  to  found  a  family  or  beget  chil- 
dren. The  happiness  of  domestic  life  was  only  allowed 
to  them  on  condition  of  their  being  rich. 

Frederick  the  Great  had  learned  with  indignation 
that  the  Jewish  families  in  Berlin  far  exceeded  the 
number  of  one  hundred  and  fifty-two  allowed  by  law, 
and  that  there  were  fifty-one  too  many.  Consequently 
a  stringent  decree  was  issued  that  they  should  no  longer 
be  counted  by  families,  but  by  heads,  and  that  when  the 
poll  exceeded  the  permitted  number,  the  poorest  and 
lowest  of  them  should  be  shipped  off.*  Gold  was  there- 
fore to  the  rich  Jew  a  certificate  of  naturalization,  while 
the  poorer  ones  had  no  certainty  of  a  home.  They  could 
at  any  moment  be  turned  off,  driven  out  of  Berlin,  if  a 
richer  one  should  by  his  wealth  and  trading  acquire  the 
right  to  take  to  himself  a  wife,  and  by  her  have  a  ehild. 
But  even  he,  the  rich  one,  could  only  have  one  child; 
*  BQsching's  Travels.  1780. 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN.  217 

only  one  child  was  allowed  to  him  by  law.  For  one 
child  only  could  he  obtain  legal  protection,  and  only  in 
exceptional  cases,  as  when  their  factories  and  firms  suc- 
ceeded remarkably  well,  did  the  king,  in  the  fulness  of 
his  grace,  allow  a  second  child  to  inherit  its  guardian- 
ship.* 

Of  what  avail,  then,  was  it  to  the  poor  Jews  to  have 
toiled  and  worked  so  hard,  driven  by  the  necessity  of 
paying  the  hateful  Jewish  poll-tax,  and  thereby  procur- 
ing for  themselves  a  temporary  toleration?  At  any  mo- 
ment they  could  be  driven  off  in  case  the  rich  Ephraim 
or  the  rich  David  Itzig,  in  the  arrogance  of  their  wealth, 
should  venture  to  give  to  the  world  more  than  one  child, 
and  purchase  for  the  sum  of  three  thousand  dollars 
another  certificate  of  protection  for  the  second!  Of 
what  avail  was  their  wealth  even  to  the  rich  Jews 
Ephraim  and  Itzig?  They  were  nevertheless  under  the 
ban  of  their  proscribed  race.  No  privileges,  no  offices  ex- 
isted for  them.  They  could  only  build  factories  or  carry 
on  commerce.  All  other  paths  of  life,  even  agriculture 
and  horticulture,  were  forbidden  to  them.  And  now 
they  were  called  on  to  give  up  to  the  Russians  their  very 
life,  the  nerve  of  their  existence,  the  heart  which  carried 
blood  and  warmth  to  their  entire  organization — their 
money. 

Ephraim  and  Itzig  were  rich  and  powerful  in  Berlin; 
they  could  build  houses,  found  factories,  and  even  deter- 
mine the  value  of  money,  for  the  mint  was  in  their 
hands.  They  had  farmed  it  from  the  king,  and  paid 
him  an  enormous  rent  for  the  same,  which  had  increased 
each  year,  and  in  1760  amounted  to  seven  millions. 
But,  thanks  to  this  farming,  the  value  of  money  had  in- 
creased exorbitantly.  Twenty  dollars  were  paid  for  a 
*  "  Annals  of  the  Jews  in  the  Prussian  States,"  Berlin. — UNGER. 


218  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

Frederick  d'or,  and  five-and-thirty  for  the  mark  of  fine 
silver.  Owing  to  the  labors  of  these  Jewish  lessees,  there 
were  many  millions  of  light  money,  many  millions  of 
bad  eight-groschen  pieces,  which,  to  this  day,  are  known 
by  the  name  of  Ephraimites,  and  whose  repudiation  at 
a  later  period  ruined  many  thousands  of  honest,  worthy 
tradesmen,  while  Ephraim  and  Itzig  became  wealthy  and 
powerful  thereby.  Yet  it  was  now  this  same  money 
which  brought  misfortune  to  them,  and  was  the  cause 
of  their  suffering  and  mortal  anxiety;  for  General  Tottle- 
ben  had  threatened  that  if  the  Jews  could  not  pay  the 
tax  imposed  on  them,  he  would  take  the  mint  farmers 
with  him  as  hostages,  and  destroy  their  factories.  Be- 
sides this,  he  had,  as  we  said  before,  arrested  their  elders 
and  sworn  to  send  them  to  Siberia,  if  the  Jews  did  not 

pay- 

The  payment  was  to  be  made  in  three  days.  But 
the  three  days  had  elapsed,  and  they  had  not  been  able 
to  raise  the  money  which  was  demanded  of  them.  In 
this  dire  extremity,  the  two  mint-contractors  remem- 
bered the  man  whom  they  had  hitherto  most  cordially 
hated,  and  whose  ruin  was  the  cherished  wish  of  their 
life.  They  now  recollected  that  John  Gotzkowsky  was 
the  only  man  who,  in  the  generosity  and  kindness  of  his 
heart,  was  capable  of  forgetting  their  former  insults 
and  injuries,  and  of  remembering  only  their  need  and 
misery.  They  determined,  therefore,  to  apply  to  him, 
and  request  his  intercession  and  assistance,  but  they  did 
this  with  a  bitter  sigh,  for  they  felt  the  hatred  and 
grudge  which  they  nursed  in  their  hearts  toward  him 
become  only  more  intense  and  stronger. 

"Who  would  have  thought  it?"  said  Ephraim,  as, 
by  the  side  of  Itzig,  and  accompanied  by  some  of  the 
most  wealthy  Jewish  merchants,  he  took  the  road  to 


THE  RICH  JEWS  APPEAL  TO  GOTZKOWSKY. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  219 

Gotzkowsky's  dwelling — "who  would  have  thought  it? 
The  powerful  Russian  General  von  Tottleben  is  the 
friend  of  Gotzkowsky,  and  the  greatest  men  among  our 
people  are  now  obliged  to  go  to  Gotzkowsky's  house  to 
implore  his  influence  and  protection." 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  rich  merchant  David,  "  we  are 
obliged  to  apply  to  him  to  befriend  us,  and  yet  what  is  he 
compared  to  you?  You  are  much  richer  than  he  is." 

"  Silence,  unfortunate  man!  "  cried  Ephraim  with  a 
shudder,  as  he  looked  shyly  around.  "  I  am  poor,  and 
for  that  reason  can  pay  nothing.  I  am  poor,  as  all  of  us 
wretched  Jews  are.  Have  we  not  to  contribute  the 
greater  portion  of  the  war-tax?  Are  not  all  our  means 
exhausted?  Is  that  not  enough?  " 

"  Too  much! "  groaned  Itzig,  who  till  now  had 
walked  in  melancholy  contemplation  at  Ephraim's  other 
side.  "  It  is  too  much.  Are  we  then  treated  like  hu- 
man beings?  Have  we  any  rights?  Only  when  we 
have  to  pay,  do  they  remember  that  we  have  the  right 
of  giving  up  our  hard-earned  property.  If  the  Jew  has 
no  money,  is  he  not  at  least  a  man,  say  I?  " 

"Pshaw!  a  man!"  cried  Ephraim.  "Whoever  is 
without  money  is  no  man,  be  he  Jew  or  Christian.  If 
Gotzkowsky  had  no  money,  he  would  be  no  better  than 
we  are.  Why  does  the  Eussian  general  have  any  thing 
to  do  with  him?  Because  he  is  rich.  Why  do  the  counts 
and  lords  pay  court  to  him?  For  the  same  reason. 
Why  do  they  call  his  daughter  an  angel,  and  swear  she  is 
the  handsomest  woman  in  Berlin?  Because  her  father 
is  the  richest  Christian  merchant  in  the  town.  The 
whole  world  knows  and  admires  him.  And  why?  Be- 
cause he  is  rich." 

"  No  one  is  rich,"  said  Itzig,  shaking  his  head.  "  He 
who  has  not  every  thing  is  not  rich.  There  is  no  such 


220  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

thing  as  riches,  for  he  who  has  much  has  to  give 
much." 

"  God  knows  we  will  have  to  give  much!  "  whim- 
pered Ephraim,  and  all  his  companions  joined  in  with 
groans  and  sighs  as  a  chorus  to  his  speech.  "  They 
mean  to  take  every  thing  from  us  that  we  own,  and  Itzig 
is  right;  if  the  Jew  has  not  money,  he  is  nobody.  Have 
we  not  suffered  as  much  as  others?  Have  we  not  pro- 
tected our  people,  and  fed  and  housed  our  poor?  No 
one  talks  about  these  things,  but  the  whole  town  talka 
about  Gotzkowsky.  They  praise  him,  they  exalt  him; 
they  cry  out  his  name  everywhere,  so  that  one's  heart 
actually  burns  for  vexation.  And  yet  at  the  highest 
calculation  he  is  not  worth  more  than  a  million." 

"  He  is  worth  more  than  ourselves;  he  is  worth  much 
more,  for  he  has  the  favor  of  the  Kussian  general.  For 
this  reason  we  must  bow  down  before  him,  and  flatter 
him,  and  assure  him  of  our  eternal  gratitude,  for  it  is  a 
question  not  of  life,  but  what  is  more  precious  than  life 
— money." 

With  deep-drawn  sighs  they  whined  out,  "  Yes,  we 
must  bow  to  him,  and  flatter  him,  and  yet  we  are  richer 
than  he  is." 

As  long  as  they  were  on  the  street  they  maintained  an 
air  of  pride  and  vexation;  but  as  soon  as  they  entered 
Gotzkowsky's  house  and  stood  in  his  presence,  they  were 
all  gentleness,  humility,  and  friendliness.  With  tears 
they  implored  Gotzkowsky  to  have  pity,  and  to  beg  Gen- 
eral Tottleben  to  have  compassion  on  them.  They 
vowed  eternal  gratitude  to  him,  and  swore  with  solemn 
oaths  that  if  he  succeeded  in  relieving  the  Jews  from  the 
special  impost,  they  would  love  him  forever,  and  be  ever- 
lastingly thankful  to  him. 

Gotzkowsky  smiled  in  pity.     "  That  means  that  you 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  221 

would  feel  yourselves  under  obligations  to  me,  and,  if 
ever  you  got  me  in  your  power,  you  would  take  the  op- 
portunity to  ruin  me.  But  that  is  of  no  consequence 
to  me.  This  impost  is  a  crying  injustice,  and  therefore 
will  I  plead  for  you,  for  it  never  shall  be  said  that  Gotz- 
kowsky  suffered  an  injustice  to  be  done  when  he  could 
prevent  it.  Go  home  in  peace,  for,  if  I  can,  I  will  help 
you." 

"  How  arrogant  this  man  is! "  said  Itzig,  when  they 
had  left  the  house.  "  One  would  suppose  that  he  had  all 
virtue  and  honor  on  lease,  just  as  we  have  the  mint." 

"  And  if  he  has,"  said  Ephraim  with  a  laugh,  "  if  he 
has  the  monopoly  of  virtue  and  honor,  it  is  only  to  trade 
on.  No  doubt  his  speculation  will  turn  out  just  as 
profitably  as  ours  with  the  mint.  No  doubt  he  will 
coin  it  into  light  eight-groschen  pieces,  cheat  the  people 
with  them,  and  make  more  than  his  expenses,  as  we  have 
done." 

"  But  woe  be  unto  him,"  growled  Itzig,  "  if  any  light 
coin  of  his  virtue  come  into  my  hands!  I  will  throw 
them  back  into  his  face  till  blood  flows,  and  I  will  never 
forgive  him  that  this  day  we  have  had  to  stand  before 
him  begging  and  pleading.  If  he  ever  comes  to  grief, 
I  will  remember  it.  If  the  Jew  has  no  money,  he  is  no- 
body. Well,  we  will  see  what  Gotzkowsky  is  worth  with- 
out money.  Let  me  tell  you  we  will  all  of  us  live  to  see 
that  day.  He  has  too  much  stupid  generosity,  which 
some  day  or  other  will  run  away  with  his  purse,  and  then 
there  will  be  a  grand  blow-up,  honor  and  virtue  and  all, 
sky  high.  Then  there  will  be  no  more  talk  about  the 
great  Gotzkowsky  and  his  virtue  and  all  that.  Oh!  I  do 
so  rejoice  over  that  time  a-coming.  But  in  the  mean 
time  I  am  so  very  glad  that  Gotzkowsky  can  be  of  some 

service  to  us! " 
15 


222  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTEK   XII. 

THE   BUSSIAN   GENERAL   AND   THE    GEEMAN   MAN. 

SCARCELY  had  the  Jewish  deputation  left  Gotzkow- 
sky's  house,  before  he  betook  himself,  full  of  the  impor- 
tant information  received  from  General  Bachmann,  to 
General  Tottleben's  residence,  fully  determined  to  ven- 
ture every  thing  to  prevent  the  execution  of  the  cruel 
order  which  threatened  the  factories  and  other  branches 
of  industry.  But  this  was  not  the  sole  object  which  led 
him  there.  He  went  there  as  a  representative  of  the 
whole  town.  Every  one  who  needed  assistance  applied 
to  him,  and  to  each  one  he  had  promised  to  intercede 
for  him.  Laden  with  petitions  and  commissions  from 
the  magistracy,  the  merchants,  and  the  citizens  of  Ber- 
lin, he  entered  the  Eussian  general's  quarters.  Deeply 
inspired  with  the  importance  of  his  commission,  he  trav- 
ersed the  halls  which  led  to  the  general's  private  apart- 
ments, saying  to  himself,  "  This  is  the  most  important 
mission  I  have  ever  undertaken,  for  the  welfare  of  the 
whole  town  depends  upon  it — a  million  dollars  depend 
upon  every  word  I  may  utter.  Many  a  struggle  have  I 
had  in  these  days,  but  this  is  the  hardest  of  them  all, 
and  victory  hangs  on  my  tongue." 

With  beaming  countenance  and  sparkling  eyes,  with 
his  whole  being  animated  with  the  sacredness  of  his 
office,  he  entered  the  cabinet  of  the  Russian  general. 
Tottleben  did  not  offer  him,  as  heretofore,  a  friendly 
welcome.  He  did  not  even  raise  his  eyes  from  the  dis- 
patches which  he  was  in  the  act  of  reading,  and  his  con- 
tracted brows  and  the  whole  expression  of  his  counte- 
nance was  such  as  to  discourage  any  petition  or  pleading. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  223 

At  this  moment  General  von  Tottleben  was  a  true  Rus- 
sian, and,  thanks  to  General  Fermore's  dispatches,  he 
had  succeeded  in  suppressing  his  German  sympathy. 
At  least  he  flattered  himself  that  he  had,  and  for  that 
reason  he  avoided  meeting  Gotzkowsky's  clear,  bright 
eye. 

Without  taking  any  notice,  he  finished  reading  the 
papers,  and  then  rose  and  walked  about  the  room.  After 
a  while  he  seemed  as  if  by  accident  to  perceive  Gotzkow- 
sky's presence,  and  stopped  short.  "  Have  you  come 
back  already  ?  "  he  asked  in  a  sullen,  grumbling  tone. 
"  I  know  very  well  that  you  have  returned  to  beg  for  all 
sorts  of  useless  trash;  I  can't  bear  such  eternal  begging 
and  whining — a  pitiful  rabble  that  is  all  the  time  creep- 
ing to  our  feet." 

"  Yes,  your  excellency,  it  is  nothing  but  a  poor,  piti- 
ful rabble,"  said  Gotzkowsky  with  a  smile;  "  and  for  this 
very  reason  the  Eussians  are  despised  all  over  Europe. 
Toward  the  high  and  mighty  they  behave  like  fawning 
hounds,  and  toward  the  low  and  humble  they  are  rude 
and  arrogant." 

"  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  Eussians,"  cried  the  gen- 
eral, as  he  turned  his  lowering  countenance  toward  Gotz- 
kowsky, "  I  am  speaking  of  you.  All  day  long  you  have 
done  nothing  but  beg  and  demand." 

But  Gotzkowsky  met  him  with  quiet  and  smiling 
composure.  "  Pardon,  your  excellency,  it  is  you  who 
demand;  and  because  you  are  all  the  time  demanding, 
I  must  all  the  time  be  begging.  And,  in  fact,  I  am  only 
begging  for  yourself." 

Tottleben  looked  at  him  in  inquiring  astonishment, 
but  in  silence.  "  I  am  not  begging  for  favor,"  continued 
Gotzkowsky,  "but  for  justice;  and  if  you  grant  this, 
why,  it  is  so  much  gained  for  you.  Then,  indeed,  the 


224  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

world  will  esteem  you  as  not  only  brave,  but  just;  and 
then  only  will  history  honor  you  as  truly  great — the 
equitable  and  humane  conqueror.  The  Vandals,  too, 
conquered  by  the  sword;  and  if  it  only  depended  on 
mere  brute  strength,  wild  bulls  would  be  the  greatest 
generals." 

Tottleben  cast  a  fierce,  angry  look  toward  him. 
"  For  that  reason,"  cried  he,  threateningly,  "  he  is  a  fool 
who  irritates  a  wild  bull." 

Gotzkowsky  bowed  and  smiled.  "  It  is  true  one 
should  never  show  him  a  red  cloak.  A  firm,  unterri- 
fied  countenance  is  the  only  way  to  tame  him.  The  bull 
is  powerless  against  the  mind  which  beams  out  of  the 
human  eye." 

It  was  very  probably  the  very  boldness  of  this  answer 
which  pleased  the  general,  accustomed  as  he  was  to 
Eussian  servility.  His  features  assumed  a  softer  ex- 
pression, and  he  said,  in  a  milder  tone:  "  You  are  an 
extraordinary  man,  and  there  is  no  use  in  contend- 
ing with  you.  One  is  obliged  to  do  whatever  you  wish. 
Well,  now — quick,  out  with  it — what  do  you  want 
of  me?" 

"Justice,"  said  Gotzkowsky.  "You  gave  me  your 
word  that  your  soldiers  should  not  rob  nor  plunder,  and, 
notwithstanding,  they  do  it." 

"  That  is  not  true!  "  thundered  the  general. 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  Gotzkowsky,  calmly. 

"  Who  dares  to  contradict  me  ?  "  cried  Tottleben, 
trembling  with  rage,  and  striding  toward  Gotzkowsky. 

"  I  dare,"  answered  the  latter,  "  if  you  call  that  *  to 
dare '  which  is  only  convincing  you  of  your  error.  I, 
myself,  have  seen  your  soldiers  striking  down  the  flying 
women  with  the  butts  of  their  muskets,  robbing  and 
plundering  the  houses.  Your  orders  have  been  but 


THK   MERCHANT   OF    BKRLIN.  225 

poorly  obeyed;  and  your  soldiers  almost  equal  the  AIK- 
trians  in  rudeness  and  violence." 

A  light  smile  played  over  Tottleben's  countenance. 
Gotzkowsky  had  understood  how  to  soften  his  anger. 
"  Almost — only,"  said  he,  "  woe  be  to  my  soldiers  ii'  they 
equal  the  Austrians  in  rudeness!  "  With  hasty  steps  he 
traversed  the  apartment,  and  called  his  adjutant. 
"  Send  patrols  through  the  whole  town,"  was  his  order 
to  the  officer  as  he  entered,  "  and  give  orders  to  all  the 
soldiers  to  maintain  strict  discipline.  Whoever  dares  to 
plunder,  is  guilty  of  disobedience  to  military  orders,  and 
shall  be  tried  by  military  law.  The  gallows  for  thieves 
and  marauders — say  so  to  my  men;  they  know  that  Gen- 
eral Tottleben  keeps  his  word.  Are  you  satisfied  now?  " 
he  asked  Gotzkowsky,  as  the  adjutant  left  the  room. 

"  I  thank  your  excellency,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  hesi- 
tating. 

"  Thank  God  that  at  last  you  are  satisfied,  and  have 
nothing  more  to  ask! "  cried  Tottleben,  almost  cheer- 
fully. 

"  But  indeed  I  have  a  great  deal  yet  to  ask,  and  if 
you  allow  me  I  will  ask  your  excellency  a  question.  You 
have  just  issued  an  order.  How  high  up  does  this  order 
reach  ?  " 

"How  high  up?"  asked  the  general,  surprised. 

"  I  mean  does  this  order  which  forbids  the  soldiers 
from  robbing  and  plundering  under  pain  of  death,  affect 
only  the  common  private,  or  must  the  higher  officers 
also  obey  it?" 

"  I  would  advise  every  one  to  do  so,"  cried  Tottleben, 
with  a  harsh  laugh.  "  The  order  is  for  all." 

"Even  the  highest  officers?" 

"  Not  even  the  generals  are  excepted." 

"  Then,  sir,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  drawing  himself  up 


226  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  advancing  a  step  toward  the  general,  "  I  accuse  be- 
fore you  an  officer  who  has  had  the  presumption  to  dis- 
obey your  general  order.  You  forbid,  under  severe  pen- 
alty, robbery  and  plundering,  and  yet  he  is  intent  on 
them.  You  have  strictly  ordered  the  army  to  preserve 
discipline,  and  not  to  ill-treat  nor  abuse  the  defenceless, 
and  yet  a  general  is  about  to  do  it." 

"  Who  dares  that  ?  Give  me  the  name  of  this  gen- 
eral! " 

"It  is  General  von  Tottleben,"  answered  Gotzkow- 
sky,  quietly. 

Count  Tottleben  stepped  back  and  gazed  at  him  in 
amazement. 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  lower  his  eyes,  but  met  his  flash- 
ing glance  firmly.  "  Are  you  beside  yourself?  "  asked 
the  general,  after  a  long  pause.  "  Is  your  life  such  a 
burden  to  you  that  you  are  determined  to  lose  it?  " 

"If  my  head  were  to  fall,  it  would  only  be  a  con- 
firmation of  what  I  have  asserted — that  General  von 
Tottleben  issues  an  order,  and  does  not  respect  it  him- 
self; that  while  he  forbids  his  soldiers  to  rob  and  steal, 
under  penalty  of  death,  even  he  commits  those  very 
offences." 

The  excess  of  this  boldness  had  the  effect  upon  the 
general  on  which  Gotzkowsky  had  calculated.  He  had 
speculated  somewhat  on  the  leonine  nature  of  Tottle- 
ben's  character. 

The  general,  instead  of  annihilating  his  foolhardy 
antagonist,  found  pleasure  in  his  presumption,  and  it 
flattered  him  that  he  was  esteemed  too  magnanimous  to 
revenge  himself  for  a  few  words  of  insult. 

"  Look  here,  my  friend,  you  are  so  outrageously  bold 
that  you  make  me  laugh.  For  the  sake  of  its  rarity,  I 
will  hear  you  out,  and  try  to  remain  cool.  Speak  on, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  227 

then.     Accuse  me — but  woe  to  you  if  I  justify  myself! 
Fail  not  to  prove  what  you  say." 

"  The  proverb  says,  '  Small  thieves  are  hung,  while 
great  ones  go  free,' "  replied  Gotzkowsky,  shrugging  his 
shoulders.  "  You  wish  to  prove  the  truth  of  this 
proverb.  The  soldier  who  enters  the  house  for  theft 
and  plunder,  you  condemn;  but  you  acquit  the  general 
who  devastates  a  whole  town,  and  in  the  arrogance  of  his 
victory  wishes  to  make  himself,  like  Erostratos,  immor- 
tal by  incendiarism  and  arson." 

"  Do  not  presume  too  much  on  my  forbearance,"  in- 
terrupted Tottleben,  stretching  his  arm  out  threatening- 
ly toward  the  bold  speaker.  "  Erostratos  was  a  violator 
of  temples." 

"  You  are  not  less  one! "  cried  Gotzkowsky;  "  you 
mean,  with  impious  hand,  to  cast  a  firebrand  into  the 
holy  temple  of  labor.  Erostratos  only  destroyed  the 
temple  of  an  imaginary  deity;  but  you,  sir,  are  worse — 
you  wish  to  destroy  factories!  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  that  means?  " 

"  It  means  to  deprive  the  poor  man  of  the  morsel 
of  bread  which,  by  the  sweat  of  his  brow,  rie  has  earned 
for  his  wife  and  children!  It  means  to  rob  him  who  pos- 
sesses nothing  but  the  craft  of  his  hands  and  his  body, 
of  his  only  right — the  right  to  work.  You  are  going  to 
destroy  the  gold  and  silver  manufactories,  to  burn  the 
warehouse,  to  tear  down  the  brass  works  in  the  New 
Town  Eberswald!  And  why  all  this?  Why  do  you  in- 
tend to  leave  behind  you  this  memorial  of  your  van- 
dalism? Because  your  empress  is  angry  with  our  king!  " 

"Because  enemies  wish  to  revenge  themselves  on 
enemies,"  interrupted  the  general. 

"Do  that!"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  warmly.  "Re- 
venge yourself  on  your  enemy,  if  you  consider  the  de- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEKLIN. 

struction  of  his  property  a  noble  revenge.  Destroy  the 
king's  palaces;  rob  him,  if  you  choose,  of  his  most  en- 
nobling enjoyment!  Eob  him  of  his  pictures;  do  like 
the  Saxons,  who  yesterday  destroyed  Charlottenburg. 
Send  your  soldiers  to  my  house;  there  hang  splendid 
paintings  bought  by  me  in  Italy  by  the  king's  order. 
I  know  that  our  noble  king  anticipates  much  pleasure 
in  carrying  them  some  day  to  Sans  Souci.  But  re- 
venge yourself,  take  these  pictures,  set  fire  to  these 
noble  works  of  art,  but  spare  what  belongs  to  the  poor 
man! " 

He  spoke  with  noble  warmth,  with  glowing  elo- 
quence, and  against  his  will  Tottleben's  German  heart 
was  touched,  and  moved  him  to  clemency  and  compas- 
sion. But  he  would  not  listen  to  it.  General  Fermore's 
dispatches  lay  before  him,  and  compelled  him  to  be 
harsh. 

"  You  think  you  speak  wisely,  and  yet  you  talk  noth- 
ing but  impudent  nonsense,"  said  he,  with  assumed  se- 
verity. "  Who  thinks  of  destroying  the  poor  man's 
property?  The  royal  property  shall  be  destroyed,  and 
nothing  else." 

"  But  the  gold  and  silver  manufactories  and  the  ware- 
house are  not  the  property  of  the  king,"  said  Gotzkow- 
sky  quickly.  "  Not  a  penny  goes  thence  into  the  king's 
treasury." 

The  general's  countenance  brightened  up  consider- 
ably. "  Not  into  the  king's  treasury?  "  said  he;  "  where, 
then,  does  it  go?  " 

"  The  money,  your  excellency,  which  is  earned  at  the 
gold  and  silver  factories  and  at  the  warehouse  is  devoted 
to  a  praiseworthy  and  touching  purpose.  Perhaps  you 
are  a  father — have  children;  and  when  you  go  into  bat- 
tle you  think  of  them,  and  utter  a  silent  prayer,  intrust- 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  229 

ing  them  to  God's  care,  and  praying  that  they  may  uot 
be  left  orphans.'* 

Count  Tottleben  muttered  some  untelligible  words, 
and  stretched  out  his  hand  deprecatingly.  His  lips 
trembled,  and  to  conceal  his  agitation  he  turned  away. 

Gotzkowsky  cried  out  joyously:  "  Oh,  I  see  in  your 
eyes  that  you  are  vainly  trying  to  compel  yourself  to  look 
at  me  in  anger.  Yes,  you  are  a  father.  Well,  theii, 
father,  spare  the  orphans!  From  the  proceeds  of  the 
gold  and  silver  factories,  and  the  warehouse,  the  new, 
large  orphan-house  in  Potsdam  is  supported.  Oh,  you 
cannot  be  so  cruel  as  to  deprive  the  poor  children,  whom 
the  pitiless  war  has  rendered  fatherless,  of  their  last  sup- 
port, of  their  last  refuge!  " 

The  general  stepped  up  to  him,  and  grasped  his  hand. 
"  God  be  my  witness  that  I  will  not!  But  is  this  so 
certainly?  Do  you  speak  the  truth?  " 

"Yes,  it  is  the  truth!" 

"  Can  you  swear  to  it?  "    . 

"  Yes,  with  the  most  sacred  oath." 

The  general  paced  the  room  in  silence  several  times, 
and  then,  pausing  before  Gotzkowsky,  laid  his  hand  on 
his  shoulder.  "  Listen,"  said  he.  "  I  have  often  been 
reproached  at  home  for  being  too  soft  and  pitiful.  But 
never  mind!  I  will  once  more  follow  my  own  inclination, 
and  act  in  spite  of  the  orders  which  I  have  received. 
You  must  help  me.  Put  all  that  you  have  just  stated 
down  on  paper.  Write  down  that  these  buildings  are 
not  the  property  of  the  king,  but  of  the  orphan-house. 
Swear  to  it  with  a  sacred  oath,  and  affix  your  signature 
and  seal.  Will  you  do  this?" 

"  Gladly  will  I  do  it,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  his  face 
radiant.  "Never  have  I  signed  my  name  with  a  hap- 
pier heart  than  I  will  have  when  I  sign  it  to  this  affidavit, 


230  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

which  will  procure  for  us  both  the  heart-felt  blessings  of 
so  many  children." 

He  stepped  to  the  general's  writing-table,  and,  fol- 
lowing his  direction,  seated  himself  and  wrote. 

Tottleben  in  the  mean  while  walked  up  and  down 
pensively,  his  arms  folded.  His  features  wore  a  thought- 
ful and  mild  expression.  No  trace  of  the  late  angry 
storm  was  visible.  Once  he  stopped,  and  murmured  in 
a  low  voice:  "  Orphans  one  dare  not  plunder.  Eliza- 
beth has  a  tender  heart,  and  if  she  learns  the  reason  of 
my  disobedience,  she  will  be  content.  Yes,  my  course 
is  the  right  one." 

"  I  have  finished,  sir,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  standing  up 
and  handing  him  the  paper  on  which  he  had  written. 

Tottleben  read  it  over  carefully,  and  laid  it  alongside 
of  the  dispatches  to  his  empress.  He  then  called  to  his 
adjutant  and  ordered  him  immediately  to  place  strong 
safeguards  over  the  gold  and  silver  manufactories  and 
the  warehouse,  and  to  protect  these  against  any  attack. 

Gotzkowsky  clasped  his  hands,  and  directed  his  eyes 
to  heaven  with  joyful  gratitude,  and  in  the  deep  emotion 
of  his  heart  he  did  not  perceive  that  the  general  again 
stood  before  him,  and  was  looking  at  him  with  inquiring 
sympathy.  His  voice  first  awakened  him  from  his  rev- 
erie. "  Are  you  contented  now  ?  "  asked  Tottleben,  in 
a  friendly  tone. 

"  Content,  general,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  shaking  his 
head,  "  only  belongs  to  him  who  lies  in  his  coffin." 

Again  the  general's  brow  grew  dark.  "What  is 
troubling  you  now?  Don't  hesitate — " 

"To  speak  on,  your  excellency?"  inquired  Gotz- 
kowsky, with  a  gentle  smile. 

"  No — to  put  yourself  in  your  coffin,"  answered  _the 
other,  rudely. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  231 

"  I  have  not  time  for  that,  as  yet,"  replied  Gotzkow- 
sky,  sadly.  "  Both  of  us,  general,  have  still  too  much 
to  do.  You  have  to  add  fresh  laurels  to  your  old  ones — 
I  have  to  clear  thistles  and  thorns  from  the  path  of  my 
fellow-men." 

"Ah!  there  are  more  thorns,  then?"  asked  Tottle- 
ben,  as  he  sank  down  into  a  chair,  and  regarded  Gctz- 
kowsky  with  evident  benevolence. 

"  A  great  many  yet,  sir,"  answered  Gotzkowsky,  sigh- 
ing. "  Our  whole  body  is  bloody  from  them." 

"  Then  call  on  the  regimental  surgeon  to  cure  you," 
said  Tottleben,  with  a  coarse  laugh. 

"  You  only  can  cure  us,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  seriously, 
"for  only  you  are  able  to  inflict  such  severe  wounds. 
You  are  not  satisfied  with  having  conquered  and  hu- 
miliated us,  but  you  wish  to  tread  us  in  the  dust,  and 
make  our  cheeks,  which  were  pale  with  sadness,  now 
redden  with  shame.  You  have  ordered  that  the  citizens 
of  Berlin  should  be  disarmed.  You  are  a  brave  soldier, 
sir,  and  honor  courage  above  all  things.  Now,  let  me 
ask  you,  how  could  you  bear  to  exhibit  the  certificate  of 
your  cowardice?  Could  you  survive  it?  You  look  at 
me  in  anger — the  very  question  makes  you  indignant; 
and  if  that  is  your  feeling,  why  would  you  subject  the 
citizens  of  Berlin  to  such  disgrace?  With  our  weapons 
we  have  fought  for  our  just  rights  and  our  liberty.  God 
has  willed  it  that  we  should  be  subdued  nevertheless,  and 
that  you  should  be  the  conquerors.  But  methinks  it 
would  redound  more  to  your  honor  to  be  the  conquerors 
of  honorable  men  than  of  cowardly  slaves!  And  when 
you  require  of  us,  the  conquered,  that  we  shall  give  up 
our  manly  honor,  our  weapons,  you  convert  us  into  abject 
cowards,  and  deprive  yourselves  of  all  honor  in  having 
conquered  us.  Let  us  then,  sir,  keep  our  weapons;  leave 


232  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

us  this  one  consolation,  that  on  our  tombstones  can  be 
inscribed: '  Freedom  died,  but  with  arms  in  her  hand! '  " 
and  Gotzkowsky,  quite  overcome  by  his  painful  em6- 
tions,  leaned  back  against  the  wall,  breathless,  his  im- 
ploring looks  fixed  upon  the  general. 

But  the  latter  avoided  meeting  his  eyes,  and  directed 
his  own  darkly  toward  the  ground. 

Gotzkowsky  perceived  the  indecision,  the  wavering 
of  the  general,  and  he  felt  that  he  must  now  risk  every 
thing  to  overcome  his  resistance.  "  Leave  us  our 
weapons.  Oh,  you  are  a  German!  spare  your  German 
brethren." 

Tottleben  sprang  from  his  seat  as  if  a  venomous 
snake  had  stung  him.  Dark  and  terrible  were  his  fea- 
tures, his  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  raising  his  right  hand 
threateningly,  he  cried  out:  "  You  remind  me  in  an  evil 
hour  that  I  am  a  German.  Germany  drove  me  out  to 
find  in  a  foreign  land  the  appreciation  which  my  own 
country  refused  me!  Had  I  been  a  foreigner,  Germany 
would  long  ago  have  proclaimed  my  fame;  but,  being 
the  son  of  the  family,  the  mother  drives  me  out  among 
strangers — and  that  they  call  German  good-nature!  "  and 
he  broke  out  into  a  bitter,  scornful  laugh. 

"  It  is  but  too  true,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  sadly.  "  Our 
mother  Germany  is  fond  of  sending  her  greatest  sons  out 
from  home  on  their  pilgrimage  to  fame.  For  her  great 
men  she  has  but  the  cradle  and  the  grave.  But  show 
your  unfeeling  mother  that  you  are  better  than  she  is; 
prove  to  her  how  unjust  she  has  been.  Be  magnanimous, 
and  leave  us  pur  weapons!  " 

"  I  cannot,  by  Heaven!  I  cannot  do  it,"  said  Tottle- 
ben, sadly,  in  a  low  tone.  "  I  must  obey  the  higher 
authorities  above  me — the  empress  and  the  commander- 
in-chief,  General  Fermore.  My  orders  are  very  strict, 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  233 

and  I  have  already  yielded  too  much.  It  is  written  in 
these  dispatches  that  the  arms  must  he  given  up." 

"  The  arms?  "  said  Gotzkowsky,  hastily.  "  Yes,  but 
not  all  arms.  Take  some  of  them — we  have  three  hun- 
dred inferior  rifles — take  them,  sir,  and  fulfil  the  letter 
of  your  orders,  and  save  our  honor." 

General  von  Tottlehen  did  not  answer  immediately. 
Again  he  paced  the  room,  from  time  to  time  casting 
sharp,  piercing  glances  at  Gotzkowsky,  whose  firmness 
and  animation  seemed  to  please  him.  He  stopped  sud- 
denly, and  asked  in  a  voice  so  low  that  Gotzkowsky 
was  scarcely  able  to  distinguish  the  words — "  Do  you 
think  the  Germans  will  praise  me,  if  I  do  this  thing?  " 

"  All  Germany  will  say,  '  He  was  great  in  victory, 
still  greater  in  his  clemency  toward  the  conquered/  " 
nried  Gotzkowsky,  warmly. 

The  general  dropped  his  head  upon  his  breast  in 
deep  meditation.  When  he  raised  it  again,  there  was  a 
pleasant  smile  upon  his  face.  "  Well,  then,  I  will  do 
it.  I  will  once  more  remember  that  I  am  a  German. 
Where  are  the  three  hundred  rifles?  " 

"  In  the  armory,  sir." 

The  general  made  no  reply,  but  stepped  toward  his 
writing-table  hastily.  He  wrote  off  a  few  lines,  and  then 
with  a  loud  voice  called  hie  adjutant  again  to  him.  As 
the  latter  entered,  he  handed  him  the  writing.  "  Let 
the  disarming  take  place.  There  are  not  more  than  three 
hundred  muskets.  Let  the  citizens  bring  them  to  the 
Palace  Square.  There  they  will  be  broken  up,  and 
thrown  into  the  river." 

"0  general!"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  his  countenance 
radiant  with  delight,  when  the  adjutant  had  left  the 
room,  "  how  I  do  wish  at  this  moment  that  you  were  a 
woman!  " 


234:  TEE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"la  woman!"  cried  Count  Tottleben,  laughing, 
"  why  should  I  be  a  woman?  " 

"  That  I  might  kiss  your  hand.  Believe  me,  I  never 
thanked  any  man  so  truly  and  sincerely  as  I  now  do  you! 
I  am  so  proud  to  be  able  to  say,  '  Berlin  is  conquered, 
but  not  dishonored! ' ' 

Tottleben  bowed  amicably  toward  him.  "  Now,  after 
this  proof  of  my  generosity,  the  town  will  hasten  to  pay 
its  war-tax,  will  it  not?"  Then  seeing  the  dark  cloud 
which  gathered  on  Gotzkowsky's  brow,  he  continued 
with  more  vehemence,  "  You  are  very  dilatory  in  paying. 
Be  careful  how  you  exhaust  my  patience." 

"  Pray  let  me  know,  sir,  when  it  is  exhausted,"  said 
Gotzkowsky.  "  It  is  cruel  to  drive  an  exhausted  animal 
beyond  his  strength.  Do  you  not  think  so?" 

The  general  nodded  his  assent  in  silence. 

"  You  are  of  my  opinion,"  cried  Gotzkowsky.  "  Well, 
then,  you  will  be  just,  and  not  exact  of  this  exhausted 
city,  wearied  unto  death,  more  than  she  can  perform." 

With  glowing  words  and  persuasive  eloquence  he  ex- 
plained to  the  general  how  impossible  it  was  for  the 
city  to  pay  the  demanded  war  contribution  of  four 
millions. 

Tottleben  let  himself  again  be  persuaded.  In  the 
presence  of  this  ardent,  eloquent  German  patriot,  hie 
German  heart  resumed  its  power,  and  compelled  him  to 
mercy  and  charitableness.  He  consented  to  reduce  the 
tax  to  two  millions  of  dollars,  if  Gotzkowsky  would 
guarantee  the  punctual  payment  of  the  bonds  given  by 
the  body  of  merchants,  and  give  two  hundred  thousand 
of  it  in  cash  down,  as  hush-money  to  the  Austrians. 

The  latter  declared  himself  gladly  willing  to  accept 
the  orders,  and  to  stand  security  with  his  whole  fortune 
for  their  payment.  Both  then  remained  silent,  as  if  fa- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  235 

tigued  by  the  long  and  severe  war  of  words,  from  which 
Gotzkowsky  had  always  come  out  victorious. 

The  general  stood  at  the  window,  looking  into  the 
street.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  for  Gotzkowsky  to 
give  vent  to  his  warm  and  delighted  gratitude  before 
he  took  leave.  But  Gotzkowsky  did  neither  the  one 
nor  the  other.  He  remained  with  folded  arms,  his 
countenance  full  of  earnest  courage  and  bold  determina- 
tion. 

"I  will  finish  what  I  have  commenced,"  said  he  to 
himself.  "  I  will  keep  my  word,  and  not  move  from  the 
spot  before  I  have  pleaded  for  all  those  to  whom  I  prom- 
ised my  assistance.  The  general  is  at  liberty  to  curse  my 
importunity,  if  I  only  do  my  duty  toward  my  fellow- 
citizens."  As  he  still  remained  silent,  Tottleben  turned 
toward  him  laughingly. 

"  What,"  said  he,  "  are  you  dumb  ?  Is  your  eloquence 
exhausted?  Indeed,  when  I  think  of  all  that  you  have 
got  out  of  me  to-day,  it  almost  makes  me  smile."  And 
he  broke  out  into  a  merry,  good-natured  laugh. 

"  Well,  laugh,  sir,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  "  I  know  you 
are  fond  of  a  laugh.  For  example,  you  have  just  played 
a  little  joke  on  the  Jews,  and  made  them  believe  that 
they  have  to  pay  an  imposition — " 

"  Made  believe? "  interrupted  Tottleben,  hastily. 
"Man!  be  satisfied  that  I  have  remitted  two  millions  to 
the  citizens.  Don't  speak  up  now  for  the  Jews." 

"  But  the  Jews  are  a  part  of  the  citizens." 

"Are  you  crazy,  man?"  cried  Tottleben,  violently. 
"  Is  the  Jew  a  citizen  with  you?  " 

"Yes,"  answered  Gotzkowsky,  "as  far  as  paving 
goes.  The  Jew  is  obliged  honestly  to  contribute  his 
proportion  of  the  war-tax.  How  can  you,  with  any 
semblance  of  justice,  require  of  him  another  further  tax, 


236  THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

when  he  has  already,  in  common  with  us,  given  up  all  he 
possesses  ?  " 

"  Sir/'  cried  Tottleben,  with  suppressed  vexation, 
"  this  is  enough,  and  more  than  enough !  " 

"  No/'  said  Gotzkowsky,  smiling.  "  It  is  too  much. 
The  Jews  are  not  able  to  pay  it — 

"  I  will  remit  their  contribution/'  cried  the  general, 
stamping  violently  on  the  floor,  "  to  please  you — just  to 
get  rid  of  you — but  now — " 

"  But  now,"  interrupted  Gotzkowsky,  insinuatingly, 
u  one  more  favor." 

The  general  stepped  back  astounded,  and  looked  at 
Gotzkowsky  with  a  species  of  comical  terror.  "  DC  you 
know  that  I  am  almost  afraid  of  you,  and  will  thank  God 
when  you  are  gone?" 

"  Then  you  think  of  me  as  the  whole  town  of  Berlin 
thinks  of  you,"  said  Gotzkowsky. 

The  general  laughed.  "  Your  impudence  is  aston- 
ishing. Well,  quick,  what  is  your  last  request  ?  " 

"  They  are  preparing  at  the  New  Market  a  rare  and 
unheard-of  spectacle — a  spectacle,  general,  as  yet  un- 
known in  Germany.  You  have  brought  it  with  you 
from  Russia.  You  are  going  to  make  two  men  run  the 
gantlet  of  rods — not  two  soldiers  convicted  of  crime, 
but  two  writers,  who  have  only  sinned  in  spirit  against 
you,  who  have  only  exercised  the  free  and  highest  right 
of  man — the  right  to  say  what  they  think.  You  are  going 
to  have  two  newspaper  writers  scourged,  because  they 
drew  their  quills  against  you.  Is  not  that  taking  a  bar- 
barous revenge  for  a  small  offence?  " 

"  A  small  offence,"  cried  the  general,  whose  counte- 
nance had  resumed  its  dark,  fierce  expression.  "  Come, 
that's  enough.  Stop,  if  you  do  not  wish  me  to  take 
back  all  that  I  have  granted  you.  Do  you  call  that  a 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  237 

small  offence?  Why,  sir,  the  editor  of  Spener's  Journal 
called  me  an  adventurer,  a  renegade.  Ah!  he  at  least 
shall  feel  that  I  have  the  power  of  punishing." 

"  Why,"  said  Gotzkovvsky  calmly,  "  that  would  only 
prove  to  him  that  he  had  hit  you  on  a  tender  spot." 

"  And  the  scribbler  of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  did  he 
not  venture  even  to  attack  my  gracious  empress?  "  con- 
tinued Tottleben,  perfectly  carried  away  by  his  indig- 
nation. "  He  wrote  a  conversation  between  peasants, 
and  in  it  he  made  fun  of  the  empress.  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  make  his  own  king  join  in  the  dirty  talk,  in 
the  character  of  a  peasant.  Sir,  I  am  very  much  sur- 
prised that  you  should  defend  a  man  who  carries  his 
impudence  so  far  as  to  canvass  and  scandalize  the  con- 
duct of  his  own  king  in  such  a  disrespectful  and  auda- 
cious manner." 

"  The  king  is  great  enough  to  be  able  to  bear  this 
calumny  of  little  minds.  Whosoever  is  truly  great,  is 
not  afraid  of  free  speaking  nor  of  calumny.  Have  you 
never  heard  the  story  of  how  the  king  was  riding  by, 
where  the  people  were  collected  at  the  corner  of  a  street, 
stretching  out  their  necks  to  read  a  pasquinade  which 
had  been  hung  on  the  wall,  and  was  directed  against  the 
king  himself?  The  king  reigned  in  his  horse,  and  read 
the  hand-bill.  The  people  stood  in  silent  terror,  for 
the  paper  contained  a  sharp  abuse  of  the  king,  and  a  libel 
on  him  in  verse.  What  does  your  excellency  think  the 
king  did  when  he  had  read  this  most  treasonable  pla- 
card?" 

"  He  had  the  mob  cut  it  down,  as  it  deserved  to  be, 
and  the  author  strung  up  on  the  gallows,"  cried  Tottle- 
ben. 

"  Not  at  all,  sir,"  replied  Gotzkowsky.     "  He  said, 

'  Let  the  paper  be  hung  lower;  the  people  can't  see  to 
16 


238  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

read  it  up  so  high.'  He  then  saluted  the  crowd,  and 
rode  off,  laughing." 

"Did  the  great  Fritz  do  that?"  said  Tottleben,  un- 
consciously using  the  epithet  which  the  Prussian  people 
had  applied  to  their  king. 

"  He  did  it  because  he  is  great,"  replied  Gotzkowsky. 

"  Strange,  hard  to  believe,"  muttered  the  general, 
folding  his  arms,  and  striding  up  and  down.  After  a 
pause,  Gotzkowsky  inquired,  "  Would  you  not  like  to 
emulate  the  great  king,  general  ?  " 

Count  Tottleben  awoke  from  his  reverie.  Approach- 
ing Gotzkowsky,  he  laid  his  hand  upon  his  shoulder;  his 
expression  was  indescribably  mild  and  gentle,  and  a 
melancholy  smile  played  around  his  lips.  "  Hark'ee,  I 
believe  it  would  do  me  good  if  we  could  be  always  to- 
gether. Come  with  me.  Settle  in  Kussia.  The  em- 
press has  heard  of  you,  and  I  know  that  she  would  be  re- 
joiced if  you  came  to  Petersburg.  Do  it.  You  can 
make  a  large  fortune  there.  The  empress's  favor  will 
elevate  you,  and  she  will  not  let  you  want  for  orders  or 
a  title." 

Gotzkowsky  could  hardly  suppress  a  smile  of  con- 
tempt. "  Orders  for  me!  A  title!  What  would  I  do 
with  them?  Sir,  I  am  more  powerful  than  all  your 
counts,  for  the  greatness  of  the  nobility  lies  in  the  past, 
in  mouldering  ancestors;  but  the  greatness  of  the  manu- 
facturer lies  in  the  future,  and  the  future  belongs  to 
industry.  I  founded  the  first  large  factories  here  in 
Berlin,  and  the  manufacturers  who  come  after  me  can 
call  me  their  ancestor.  No  other  nobility  do  I  desire, 
count/' 

"You  would  then  be  capable  of  refusing  a  count's 
title?  "  asked  Tottleben,  in  astonishment. 

Gotzkowsky  shrugged  his   shoulders.      "If  I   had 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  239 

wished  for  nobility  I  could  long  ago  have  bought  a  count- 
ship  of  the  holy  German  empire,  for  such  things  are  for 
sale,  and  thirty  thousand  ducats  is  the  highest  price  for 
a  count's  title;  and  as  for  the  orders,  my  own  ribbon- 
factory  turns  out  the  ribbons  for  them." 

General  Tottleben  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time  in 
mild  astonishment.  "  You  are  a  wonderful  man,  and  1 
wish  I  were  like  you.  If  I  had  thought  as  you  do,  my 
life  would  have  been  a  less  stormy  one,  and  less  tossed  by 
care  and  restlessness.  I  would  have — 

The  general  was  interrupted  by  the  hasty  entrance 
of  the  adjutant.  He  was  the  bearer  of  dispatches 
brought  by  a  courier  who  had  just  arrived.  The  courier, 
he  said,  had  ridden  so  hard,  that  his  horse  had  fallen 
dead  on  his  arrival. 

Tottleben  tore  open  the  dispatches  and  read  them 
rapidly.  His  countenance  immediately  lost  its  former 
expression  of  mildness  and  gentleness.  His  German 
heart  was  silenced  by  the  will  of  the  Russian  general. 

He  seemed  to  forget  Gotzkowsky's  presence,  and 
turning  to  his  adjutant,  with  proud  military  bearing,  he 
said:  "  These  dispatches  contain  important  and  surpris- 
ing information.  They  announce  that  the  Prussian 
army  is  drawing  on  in  forced  marches,  with  the  king  at 
its  head.  We  cannot  give  him  battle  here,  and  must, 
in  consequence,  arrange  for  a  rapid  retreat  from  Berlin. 
Call  all  the  generals  and  staff-officers  together.  Let  the 
alarm  be  sounded.  In  three  hours  the  whole  army 
must  have  left  the  city.  And,  further,  summon  the 
Town  Council  to  the  New  Market,  that  we  may  take  our 
leave,  for  we  must  not  leave  Berlin  as  fugitives,  but  as 
conquerors,  who  are  proceeding  on  their  march." 

"  And  the  poor  editors  who  are  to  be  flogged?  "  asked 
Gotzkowsky,  when  the  adjutant  had  left. 


240  THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

The  general  smiled,  as  he  took  Gotzkowsky  amicably 
by  the  hand.  ""  We  will  hang  them  a  little  lower,"  said 
he,  significantly.  "  Come,  accompany  us  to  the  market- 
place! " 

NOTE. — Count  von  Tottleben  expiated  his  clemency  toward 
Berlin  very  dearly.  A  few  months  later  he  was  sent  to  Pe- 
tersburg under  arrest,  accused  principally  of  having  behaved  too 
leniently  and  too  much  in  the  German  interest  for  a  Russian  gen- 
eral. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

THE    EXECUTION. 

THE  morning  was  cold  and  rainy,  the  wind  howled 
down  the  empty  streets,  rattling  the  windows,  and  slam- 
ming the  open  house-doors.  Surely  the  weather  was 
but  little  suited  for  going  out,  and  yet  the  Berlin  citi- 
zens were  to  be  seen  nocking  toward  the  New  Market  in 
crowds,  regardless  of  wind  and  rain. 

The  Berliners  have,  from  time  immemorial,  been  an 
inquisitive  race,  and  where  any  thing  is  to  be  seen,  there 
they  rush.  But  this  day  there  was  to  be  a  rare  spec- 
tacle at  the  New  Market. 

The  editors  of  the  two  newspapers  were  to  run  the 
gantlet;  and  besides,  General  von  Tottleben  had  sum- 
moned the  Town  Council  and  Jews  thither,  to  receive  his 
last  orders  and  resolutions  before  he  left  Berlin.  People 
were,  therefore,  very  much  excited,  and  curious  to  wit- 
ness this  double  show,  and  in  their  eagerness  they  for- 
gave the  hostile  general,  who  had  prepared  such  a  de- 
lightful entertainment  for  them,  all  the  terrors  of  the 
last  few  days.  Two  gentlemen — two  learned  men — were 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  241 

to  be  flogged.  That  was,  indeed,  a  precious  and  delight- 
ful sight  for  cold,  hungry,  ragged  poverty,  which  always 
takes  delight  in  seeing  those  whom  fortune  has  favored, 
suffer  and  smart. 

How  often  had  these  shoemakers  and  tailors  worried 
and  fretted  themselves  over  their  pot  of  beer,  that  the 
newspaper  writers  should  have  had  the  hardihood  and 
stupidity  to  write  so  violently  against  the  Russians,  with- 
out taking  into  account  that  the  Russians  would  one  day 
occupy  Berlin,  and  take  revenge  on  its  innocent  citizens! 
It  served  these  newspaper  writers  quite  right  that  they 
should  be  punished  for  their  arrogance.  And,  besides, 
the  good  people  would  see  the  Russian  general  and  his 
staff,  and  the  grand  Town  Council  and  the  chief  magis- 
trate, who,  in  his  golden  chain  and  his  robes  of  office, 
was  to  hand  over  to  the  hostile  general  a  present  of  ten 
thousand  ducats.  The  Berliners  were,  therefore,  quite 
happy,  and  delighted  to  hear  the  hollow  sound  of  the 
drum,  and  the  Russian  word  of  command. 

A  regiment  of  Russian  soldiers  marched  past  the 
corner  of  the  Bishop  Street,  toward  the  market-place. 
They  ranged  themselves  in  two  long  lines,  leaving  a  lane 
between  them,  just  wide  enough  for  a  man  to  pass 
through.  Then  came  two  provost-marshals,  and  walked 
slowly  down  the  lane,  delivering  to  each  soldier  one  of 
the  long  slender  rods  they  carried  under  their  arms. 

The  Russian  soldiers  were  now  armed,  and  awaited 
the  victims  they  were  to  chastise.  These  were  dragged 
out  of  the  guard-house.  First  came  tottering  the  gray- 
headed  Mr.  Krause,  slowly  and  sadly;  then  came  Mr. 
Kretschmer,  formerly  the  brave,  undaunted  hero  of  the 
quill — now  a  poor,  trembling,  crushed  piece  of  human- 
ity. They  stood  in  the  middle  of  the  square,  and,  be- 
wildered with  terror,  their  help-imploring  looks  swept 


24:2  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

over  the  gaping,  silent  multitude,  who  gazed  at  them 
with  eager  countenances  and  malicious  joy,  and  would 
have  been  outrageously  mad  if  they  had  been  denied 
the  enjoyment  of  seeing  two  of  their  brother-citizens 
scourged  by  the  enemy's  soldiers. 

"I  cannot  believe  it!"  whimpered  Mr.  Krause;  "it 
is  impossible  that  this  is  meant  in  earnest.  They  cannot 
intend  to  execute  so  cruel  a  sentence.  What  would  the 
world,  what  would  mankind  say,  if  two  writers  were 
scourged  for  the  articles  they  had  written?  Will  the  town 
of  Berlin  suffer  it?  Will  no  one  take  pity  on  our  dis- 
tress?" 

"  No  one,"  said  Mr.  Kretschmer,  mournfully. 
"  Look  at  the  crowd  which  is  staring  at  us  with  pitiless 
curiosity.  They  would  sooner  have  pity  on  a  murderer 
than  on  a  writer  who  is  going  to  be  flogged.  The  whole 
town  has  enjoyed  and  laughed  over  our  articles,  and  now 
there  is  not  one  who  would  dare  to  beg  for  us." 

At  this  moment  another  solemn  procession  came 
down  the  Bishop  Street  toward  the  square.  This  was  the 
Town  Council  of  Berlin.  Foremost  came  the  chief 
burgomaster  Von  Kircheisen,  who  had  recovered  his 
speech  and  his  mind,  and  was  memorizing  the  well-set 
speech  in  which  he  was  to  offer  to  the  general  the  thanks 
of  the  town  and  the  ten  thousand  ducats,  which  a  page 
bore  alongside  of  him  on  a  silken  pillow. 

Behind  the  Council  tottered  trembling  and  broken- 
hearted the  elders  of  the  Jews,  including  those  of  the 
mint,  in  order  to  receive  their  final  condemnation  or  re- 
lease from  General  Tottleben. 

The  people  took  no  notice  of  the  Council  or  of  the 
Jews.  They  were  busy  staring  with  cruel  delight  at  the 
journalists,  who  were  being  stripped  by  the  provost- 
marshals  of  their  outer  clothing,  and  prepared  for  the 


THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN.  243 

bloody  exhibition.  With  a  species  of  barbarous  pleas- 
ure they  listened  to  the  loud  wailing  of  the  trembling, 
weeping  Krause,  who  was  wringing  his  hands  and  im- 
ploring the  Kussian  officer  who  had  charge  of  the  execu- 
tion, for  pity,  for  mercy. 

The  Eussian  officer  was  touched  by  the  tears  of  sor- 
row of  the  editor;  he  did  have  pity  on  the  gray  hairs 
and  bowed  form  of  the  old  man,  or  perhaps  he  only  acted 
on  instructions  received  from  General  Tottleben.  He 
motioned  to  the  provosts  to  lead  the  other  editor  to  the 
lane  first,  and  to  spare  Mr.  Krause  until  Mr.  Kretschmer 
had  beeen  chastised.  The  provost  seized  hold  of  Mr. 
Kretschmer  and  dragged  him  to  the  terrible  lane;  they 
pushed  him  in  between  the  rows  of  soldiers,  who,  with 
rude  laughter,  were  flourishing  the  rods  in  their  hands. 

Already  the  first,  the  second,  the  third  blow  has  fallen 
on  the  back  of  the  editor  of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  when 
suddenly  there  sounds  a  powerful  "  Halt! "  and  Gen- 
eral Count  von  Tottleben  appears,  with  Gotzkowsky  at 
his  side,  and  followed  by  his  brilliant  staff. 

With  a  wild  scream  Kretschmer  tears  himself  loose 
from  the  hands  of  the  provost-marshals,  and  rushes  to- 
ward the  general,  crying  out  aloud;  Mr.  Krause  awakens 
from  his  heavy,  despairing  brooding,  and  both  editors 
sink  down  before  the  Russian  general. 

With  a  mischievous  smile,  Tottleben  looked  at  Mr. 
Kretschmer's  bleeding  back,  and  asked,  "Who  are 
you?" 

"I  am  the  Vossian  Gazette,"  whined  out  Mr. 
Kretschmer,  "whom  you  have  accused  of  such  cruel 
things.  Ah!  we  have  suffered  great  injustice,  and  we 
have  been  represented  as  worse  than  we  really  are.  Oh, 
believe  me,  your  excellency,  I  have  been  belied.  I  never 
hated  Russia! " 


244  THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

"  You  are  both  of  you  accused  of  libel/'  said  Tottle- 
ben,  sternly. 

"  If  we  are  guilty  of  libel,  it  is  without  our  knowl- 
edge," said  Mr.  Krause.  "  Besides,  we  are  very  willing 
to  recall  every  thing.  I  confess  we  were  in  error.  We 
did  not  know  you  and  your  army,  and  we  spoke  igno- 
rantly,  as  the  blind  man  does  about  colors.  Now  we  are 
better  able  to  judge.  You  are  the  noblest  among  noble 
men,  and  finer  soldiers  than  the  Eussians,  and  a  chaster 
woman  than  the  Empress  Elizabeth,  are  not  to  be  found 
anywhere.  Oh,  yes,  your  excellency,  Spener's  Journal  is 
ready  to  eat  its  words.  Only  don't  let  me  be  flogged,  sir, 
and  I  will  sing  your  praises  everlastingly,  and  proclaim 
to  all  the  world  that  the  Prussian  has  no  better  friend 
than  the  Eussian,  and  that  God  has  ordained  them  to  be 
brothers." 

"  Only  don't  let  us  be  flogged,"  implored  Mr. 
Kretschmer,  rubbing  his  sore  back,  "  I  promise  your  ex- 
cellency that  the  Vossian  Gazette  shall  be  as  tame  as  a 
new-born  infant.  It  shall  never  indulge  in  bold,  out- 
spoken language;  never  have  any  decided  color.  I 
swear  for  myself  and  my  heirs,  that  we  will  draw  its 
fangs.  Have,  therefore,  mercy  on  us! " 

The  general  turned  away  with  a  smile  of  contempt. 
"  Enough,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  roughly,  and  laying 
his  hand  on  Gotzkowsky's  shoulder,  he  continued:  "I 
pardon  you,  not  in  consequence  of  your  idle  talk,  but  for 
the  sake  of  this  noble  gentleman,  who  has  begged  for 
you.  You  are  free,  sirs! "  As  the  two  editors  were 
about  to  break  out  into  expressions  of  gratefulness, 
Tottleben  said  to  them,  "It  is  Gotzkowsky  alone  that 
you  have  to  thank  for  your  liberty." 

They  threw  themselves  into  Gotzkowsky's  arms;  with 
solemn  oaths  they  vowed  him  eternal,  inviolable  grati- 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN.  245 

tude;  they  called  him  their  savior,  their  liberator  from 
shame  and  disgrace. 

Gotzkowsky  smiled  at  their  glowing  protestations  of 
friendship,  and  withdrew  himself  gently  from  their 
ardent  embraces.  "  I  did  not  do  it  for  the  sake  of  your 
thanks,  and  personally  you  owe  me  therefore  no  grati- 
tude." 

"  Gotzkowsky,  have  you  entirely  forgotten  us?  "  said 
a  plaintive  voice  near  him.  It  was  Itzig,  one  of  the 
rich  Jews  of  the  mint,  to  whom  Gotzkowsky  had  prom- 
ised assistance. 

"  Ask  the  general,"  said  the  latter,  smiling. 

"  He  has  spoken  for  you,  and  his  intercession  has 
freed  you  from  the  special  tax,"  said  Count  Tottleben. 

"  He  has  saved  us,  the  great  Gotzkowsky  has  had  pity 
on  our  wretchedness,"  cried  the  Jews,  crowding  around 
Gotzkowsky  to  press  his  hand,  to  embrace  him,  and  with 
tears  of  grateful  emotion  to  promise  him  their  unalter- 
able attachment. 

"  You  have  saved  my  life,"  said  Itzig,  "  for  I  had  de- 
termined to  die  rather  than  pay  any  more  money.  For 
what  is  life  to  me  without  money?  If  the  Jew  has  not 
money,  he  is  nobody.  In  saving  my  money  you  saved 
my  life.  If  ever  you  should  be  without  money,  Gotz- 
kowsky, come  to  me;  I  will  lend  you  some  at  very  low 
interest." 

"  I  will  lend  it  to  you  gratis,"  said  Ephraim,  press- 
ing his  hand  affectionately  in  his  own. 

Gotzkowsky  answered  sadly:  "  If  it  ever  came  to  pass 
that  I  were  obliged  to  borrow,  you  would  not  remember 
this  day,  and  I  would  not  be  the  man  to  remind  you 
of  it." 

"  Eemind  us  of  it,"  protested  Ephraim,  "  and  you 
shall  see  that  we  keep  our  word.  Come  to  us  and  say, 


246  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

'  Eemember  the  tax  that  I  freed  you  from/  and  you  shall 
see  all  that  you  desire  shall  be  fulfilled." 

"  God  grant  that  I  may  never  have  need  to  remind 
you  of  it!  "  said  Gotzkowsky,  pressing  back  the  excited 
Jews,  and  approaching  General  Tottleben. 

"You  forget,  sir,  that  you  summoned  the  honorable 
Council  of  Berlin  hither,  and  that  these  gentlemen  are 
awaiting  your  orders." 

The  general  seemed  to  awaken  out  of  a  deep  reverie. 
"  Yes,"  said  he,  as  if  to  himself,  "  the  German  dream  is 
finished,  and  now  I  must  be  a  Eussian  again."  He  then 
turned  quickly  to  Gotzkowsky  and  offered  him  his  hand. 
"  Gotzkowsky,"  said  he,  gently  and  persuasively,  "  con- 
eider  it  once  more — come  with  me  and  be  my  teacher." 

"  What  I  can  teach  you  is  but  little.  It  is  an  easy 
lesson  for  him  who  has  a  heart,  an  impossible  one  for  him 
who  has  none.  Learn  to  love  mankind.  That  is  all 
my  wisdom,  and  my  farewell." 

The  general  sighed.  "  You  will  not  go  with  me? 
Well,  then,  farewell!  "  And  as  if  to  disperse  the  pain- 
ful and  bitter  feelings  which  assailed  his  German  heart, 
he  turned  away  and  called,  in  Eussian,  to  his  adjutant: 
"  Let  us  break  up,  gentlemen.  To  horse,  to  horse!  " 

But  in  the  midst  of  the  confusion  of  the  soldiers,  and 
the  tramping  of  horses,  the  chief  burgomaster  made  a 
way  for  himself.  He  had  to  sustain  the  honor  of  the 
Council,  and  pronounce  the  beautifully  worded  oration 
which  had  cost  him  two  sleepless  nights  to  compose;  he 
had  to  place  in  the  hands  of  the  general  the  offering  of 
Berlin  gratitude. 

At  last  he  succeeded  in  reaching  the  general,  and  he 
began  his  speech.  Full  and  powerful  did  his  voice 
sound  through  the  New  Market,  and  the  delighted  peo- 
ple rejoiced  over  the  oratorical  talent  of  their  chief  mag- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  247 

istrate,  and  gazed  with  pride  and  admiration  at  his 
golden  chain  of  office — that  chain  which  had  gone 
through  so  much,  had  endured  so  much,  without  grow- 
ing pale  or  dim. 

But  General  Tottleben  did  not  accept  the  present 
which  the  city  of  Berlin  offered  him.  He  said:  "  If  the 
town  believed  that  its  fate  was  rendered  more  tolerable 
by  my  discipline  than  it  otherwise  would  have  been,  let 
it  thank  the  express  orders  of  my  empress.  The  honor 
of  having  been  commander  of  Berlin  for  three  days  is 
sufficient  reward  for  me." 

Three  hours  later  Berlin  was  freed  from  Eussians 
and  Austrians.  Gotzkowsky,  who  had  finally  succeed- 
ed in  freeing  himself  from  the  tumultuous  expressions  of 
gratitude  of  the  Council,  the  editors,  and  the  Jews,  re- 
turned to  his  home,  of  which  he  himself  says:  "My 
house  resembled  more  a  cow-house  than  a  dwelling,  hav- 
ing been  rilled  for  a  while,  night  and  day,  with  Rus- 
sians." 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

.BRIDE   AND   DAUGHTER. 

AT  the  mere  announcement  of  the  approach  of  the 
king  toward  Berlin,  the  Russian  army  had  left  the  city 
and  withdrawn  to  Frankfort.  But  no  inconsiderable 
number  of  officers  had  stayed  behind;  some  of  them  to 
organize  the  withdrawal  of  the  troops,  while  others,  de- 
tained by  personal  affairs,  had  merely  obtained  short 
leave  of  absence.  To  the  latter  belonged  Colonel  Feodor 
von  Brenda.  General  Bachmann  had  given  him  two 
days'  leave,  under  the  impression  that  he  would  avail 


248  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

himself  of  the  time  to  enjoy,  undisturbed,  the  society 
of  his  bride,  the  Countess  Lodoiska  von  Sandomir. 

The  general  knew  nothing  of  the  difference  between 
the  colonel  and  his  betrothed.  He  did  not  know  that, 
according  to  her  agreement  with  Bertram,,  Lodoiska 
had  not  informed  Feodor  of  her  arrival  in  Berlin.  But, 
nevertheless,  Feodor  had  heard  of  it.  The  countess's 
own  chambermaid,  knowing  the  liberality  of  the  young 
count,  had  gone  to  him,  and  for  a  golden  bribe  had  be- 
trayed to  him  her  presence,  and  communicated  all  that 
she  knew  of  her  plans  and  intentions. 

This  news  detained  the  colonel  in  Berlin.  The  un- 
expected arrival  of  his  affianced  pressed  upon  him  the 
necessity  of  a  decision,  for  he  was  aware  of  the  impossi- 
bility of  tearing  asunder  the  firm  and  heart-felt  bond 
which  attached  him  to  Elise,  to  unite  himself  to  a  wife 
to  whom  he  was  only  engaged  by  a  given  promise,  a 
pledged  word. 

Feodor  would  probably  have  given  up  his  whole  for- 
tune to  pay  a  debt  of  honor;  would  have  unhesitatingly 
thrown  his  life  into  the  scale  if  it  had  been  necessary  to 
redeem  his  word.  But  he  was  not  ashamed  to  break  the 
vow  of  fidelity  which  he  had  made  to  a  woman,  and  to 
desert  her  to  whom  he  had  promised  eternal  love.  Be- 
sides, his  pride  was  wounded  by  the  advent  of  the  coun- 
tess, which  appeared  to  him  as  a  restraint  on  his  liberty 
and  an  espionage  on  his  actions. 

She  had  concealed  her  arrival  from  him,  and  he  con- 
sequently concluded  that  she  was  acquainted  with  his 
faithlessness,  and  nursed  some  plan  of  removing  the  ob- 
stacles which  lay  between  her  and  her  lover.  His  pride 
was  irritated  by  the  thought  that  he  should  be  compelled 
to  maintain  an  engagement  which  he  could  no  longer 
fulfil  from  love,  but  only  from  a  sense  of  duty.  Such  a 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  249 

restraint  on  his  free  will  seemed  to  him  an  unparalleled 
hardship.  He  felt  a  burning  hatred  toward  the  woman 
who  thus  forcibly  insisted  on  fastening  herself  upon  him, 
and  an  equally  ardent  love  toward  the  young  girl  of 
whom  they  wished  to  deprive  him. 

Doubly  charming  and  desirable  did  this  young,  inno- 
cent, lovely  girl  appear  to  him  when  he  compared  her 
with  the  mature,  self-possessed,  worldly  woman  of 
whom  he  could  only  hope  that  he  might  be  her  last  love, 
while  he  knew  that  he  was  Elise's  first. 

"  If  I  must  positively  be  chained,  and  my  hands 
bound,"  said  he  to  himself,  "  let  it  be  at  least  with  this 
fresh  young  girl,  who  can  conceal  the  thorny  crown  of 
wedlock  under  freshly-blown  rosebuds.  My  heart  has 
nothing  more  to  do  with  this  old  love;  it  has  grown 
young  again  under  the  influence  of  new  feelings,  and  I 
will  not  let  this  youthfulness  be  destroyed  by  the  icy- 
cold  smiles  of  duty.  Elise  has  promised  to  be  mine,  and 
she  must  redeem  her  promise." 

Still  full  of  the  passionate  and  defiant  thoughts 
which  the  vicinity  of  his  affianced  bride  had  provoked, 
he  had  gone  out  to  seek  Elise.  But  to  find  her  had  be- 
come not  only  difficult,  but  almost  impossible. 

Bertram,  who  had  not  thought  fit  to  reveal  to  Gotz- 
kowsky  the  forcible  abduction  of  his  daughter,  had  yet 
quietly  arranged  his  precautions  that  a  repetition  of  the 
attempt  from  any  quarter,  or  at  any  time,  should  be  im- 
possible. 

Under  the  pretence  that  the  withdrawal  of  the 
troops  rendered  the  city  unsafe,  and  filled  it  with  marau- 
ders and  plundering  stragglers,  Bertram,  secure  of  Gotz- 
kowsky's  approval  beforehand,  had  armed  a  number  of 
the  factory  workmen,  and  placed  them  as  sentinels  on  the 
wall,  in  the  court,  and  on  the  ground-floor.  These  had 


250  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

orders  not  to  let  any  one  enter  who  was  not  able  to  tell 
the  object  and  purpose  of  his  coming.  By  this  precau- 
tion Bertram  prevented  any  attempt  of  Feodor  to  climb 
the  wall;  and,  furthermore  he  obtained  the  advantage 
that  Elise,  to  whom  the  presence  of  the  sentinels  was 
unpleasant  and  objectionable,  not  only  did  not  visit 
the  dangerous,  solitary  parts  of  the  garden,  but  withdrew 
into  her  own  room.  In  this  manner  Bertram  had  ren- 
dered any  meeting  between  Feodor  and  Elise  impossible, 
but  he  could  not  prevent  his  servant,  Petrowitsch,  from 
meeting  his  sweetheart,  Elise's  chambermaid,  on  the 
street. 

By  means  of  these  a  letter  of  Feodor  reached  Elise's 
hand.  In  this  Feodor  reminded  her  solemnly  and 
earnestly  of  her  promise;  he  now  called  upon  her  to  ful- 
fil her  vow,  and  to  follow  him  from  the  house  of  her 
father.  He  adjured  her  to  unite  herself  to  him  at  the 
altar  as  his  wife,  and  to  give  him  the  right  to  carry  her 
abroad  with  him  as  his  own. 

Elise  received  this  letter  of  her  beloved,  and  her  heart 
during  its  perusal  was  moved  by  unfamiliar  emotions. 
She  could  not  herself  determine  whether  it  was  joy  or 
dread  which  caused  it  to  beat  so  convulsively,  and  almost 
deprived  her  of  consciousness.  She  could  have  screamed 
aloud  with  joy,  that  at  last  she  would  be  united  to  her 
lover,  wholly,  sacredly  as  his  own;  and  yet  she  was  filled 
with  deep  grief  that  the  path  to  the  altar  would  not  be 
hallowed  by  her  father's  blessing.  Even  love,  which 
spoke  so  loudly  and  powerfully  in  her  heart,  could  not 
silence  the  warning  voice  of  conscience — that  voice  which 
again  and  again  threatened  her  with  sin  and  sorrow,  dis- 
grace and  shame.  Yet  Elise,  in  the  warmth  and  pas- 
sion of  her  heart,  sought  to  excuse  herself,  and  in  the 
pride  of  her  wounded  filial  love  said  to  herself:  "My 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  251 

father  does  not  regard  me;  he  will  not  weep  for  my  loss, 
for  I  am  superfluous  here,  and  he  will  hardly  perceive 
that  I  am  gone.  He  has  his  millions  and  his  friends, 
and  the  whole  multitude  of  those  to  whom  he  does  good. 
He  is  so  rich — he  has  much  on  which  his  heart  hangs! 
But  I  am  quite  poor;  I  have  nothing  but  the  heart  of  my 
beloved.  His  love  is  my  only  possession.  Would  it  not 
be  wicked  in  me  to  cast  this  away,  and  lead  here  a 
lonesome,  desolate  life,  without  pity  or  sympathy?  If 
my  father  loved  me,  would  he  have  left  me  during  these 
days  so  full  of  danger?  After  the  terrible  scene  in 
which  I,  in  the  desperation  of  my  heart,  offended  him, 
he  would  at  least  have  given  me  some  opportunity  of 
asking  his  pardon,  of  begging  him  for  forbearance  and 
pity.  But  he  seems  purposely  to  have  secluded  himself, 
and  avoided  any  meeting  with  me.  He  has  shut  me  out 
from  his  heart,  and  withdrawn  his  love  from  me  forever. 
And  so  I  am  forced  to  carry  my  heart  full  of  boundless 
affection  over  to  my  lover.  He  will  never  repulse,  neg- 
lect, or  forget  me;  he  will  adore  me,  and  I  will  be  his 
most  cherished  possession." 

As  these  thoughts  passed  through  her  mind,  she 
pressed  his  note  to  her  lips,  each  word  seeming  to  greet 
her,  and  with  Feodor's  imploring  looks  to  entreat  her  to 
fulfil  the  vow  she  had  made  him.  There  was  no  longer 
any  hesitation  or  wavering  in  her,  for  she  had  come  to 
a  determined  resolution,  and  with  glowing  cheeks  and 
panting  breast  she  hastened  to  the  writing-table,  in  order 
to  clothe  it  in  words,  and  answer  Feodor's  note. 

"You  remind  me  of  my  pledged  word,"  she  wrote. 
"I  am  ready  to  redeem  it.  Come,  then,  and  lead  me 
from  my  father's  house  to  the  altar,  and  I  will  be  your 
wife;  and  wherever  you  go  I  will  be  with  you.  Hence- 
forth I  will  have  no  other  home  than  your  heart.  But 


252  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

while  1  cheerfully  elect  this  home,  at  the  same  time  I 
am  shutting  myself  out  from  my  father's  heart  forever. 
May  God  forgive  the  sins  that  love  causes  me  to  com- 
mit! " 

But  when  this  note  had  heen  sent,  when  she  knew 
that  her  lover  had  received  it,  and  that  her  decision  was 
irrevocable,  she  was  seized  with  trembling  faintness,  with 
the  oppression  of  conscious  guilt;  and  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  a  new  spring  of  love  had  suddenly  burst  forth  in 
her  heart,  and  as  if  she  had  never  loved  her  father  so 
sincerely,  so  devotedly,  so  tenderly,  as  now  that  she  was 
on  the  point  of  leaving  him. 

But  it  was  too  late  to  draw  back;  for  in  the  mean 
time  she  had  received  a  second  letter  from  Feodor,  im- 
parting the  details  of  a  plan  for  their  joint  flight,  and  she 
had  approved  of  this  plan. 

Every  thing  was  prepared,  and  all  that  she  had  to  do 
was  to  remain  in  her  room,  and  await  the  concerted 
signal  with  which  Feodor  was  to  summon  her. 

As  soon  as  she  heard  this  signal  she  was  to  leave  the 
house  with  her  maid,  who  had  determined  to  accompany 
her,  come  out  into  the  street,  where  Feodor  would  be  in 
waiting  with  his  carriage,  and  drive  in  the  first  place  to 
the  church.  There  a  priest,  heavily  bribed,  would  meet 
them,  and,  with  the  blessing  of  the  Church,  justify  Feo- 
dor in  carrying  his  young  wife  out  into  the  world,  and 
Elise  in  "  leaving  father  and  home,  and  clinging  only 
unto  her  husband." 

Some  hours  were  yet  wanting  to  the  appointed  time. 
Elise,  condemned  to  the  idleness  of  waiting,  experienced 
all  the  anxiety  and  pains  which  the  expectation  of  the 
decisive  moment  usually  carries  with  it. 

With  painful  desire  she  thought  of  her  father,  and. 
although  she  repeated  to  herself  that  he  would  not  miss 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  253 

her,  that  her  absence  would  not  be  noticed,  yet  her  ex- 
cited imagination  kept  painting  to  her  melancholy 
fancy,  pictures  of  his  astonishment,  his  anxiety,  his  pain- 
ful search  after  her. 

She  seemed,  for  the  first  time,  to  remember  that  she 
was  about  to  leave  him,  without  having  been  reconciled 
to  him;  that  she  was  to  part  from  him  forever,  without 
having  begged  his  forgiveness,  without  even  having  felt 
his  fatherly  kiss  on  her  brow.  At  least  she  would  write 
to  him,  at  least  send  him  one  loving  word  of  farewell. 
This  determination  she  now  carried  out,  and  poured  out 
all  her  love,  her  suffering,  her  suppressed  tenderness,  the 
reproaches  of  her  conscience,  in  burning  and  eloquent 
words,  on  the  paper  which  she  offered  to  her  father  as 
the  olive-branch  of  peace. 

When  she  had  written  this  letter,  she  folded  it,  and 
hid  it  carefully  in  her  bosom,  in  order  to  carry  it  un- 
noticed to  her  father's  room.  He  would  not  be  there — 
for  two  days  he  had  not  been  at  home;  she  could,  there- 
fore, venture  to  go  there  without  fear  of  meeting  him. 
She  felt  as  if  she  would  not  be  able  to  bear  his  gaze — 
the  full,  bright  look  of  his  eye. 

Carefully  and  softly,  with  the  secret  fear  of  meeting 
Bertram,  whose  sad,  reproachful  looks  she  dreaded  even 
more,  perhaps,  than  the  eye  of  her  father,  she  crept 
along  the  corridor,  and  finally  reached  the  antechamber, 
'breathing  more  freely,  and  glad  to  have  met  no  one. 
Every  thing  here  was  quiet  and  silent;  her  father,  there- 
fore, had  not  yet  returned,  and  she  was  quite  safe  from 
any  surprise  by  him. 

She  now  entered  his  private  room,  and  crossing  this, 

was  in  the  act  of  opening  the  desk  of  his  writing-table  in 

order  to  deposit  the  letter  therein,  when  she  heard  the 

door  of  the  antechamber  open.     It  was  too  late  for  flight. 

17 


254:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  she  had  only  time  to  conceal  the  letter  in  her  bosom, 
when  the  door  of  the  room  itself  was  opened. 

It  was  her  father  who  now  entered  the  apartment. 
Speechless  and  motionless  they  both  stood,  confounded 
at  this  unexpected  meeting,  each  waiting  for  a  word  of 
greeting  of  reconciliation  from  the  other.  But  however 
earnestly  their  hearts  yearned  toward  each  other,  their 
lips  remained  silent,  and  their  looks  avoided  one  an- 
other. 

"  She  shuns  me.  This  is  my  reception  after  so  many 
toilsome  days  of  absence,"  thought  Gotzkowsky,  and  his 
heart  was  full  of  sadness  and  sorrow. 

"  He  will  not  look  at  me,  his  eye  avoids  me,  he  has 
not  yet  forgiven  me,"  thought  Elise,  as  she  regarded  her 
father's  pale,  careworn  countenance.  "  No,  he  does  not 
wish  to  see  me.  For  the  last  time,  therefore,  I  will  show 
him  obedience,  and  leave  the  room."  Sadly  and  softly, 
with  her  looks  cast  on  the  ground,  she  took  her  way  to 
the  door  on  the  opposite  side. 

Gotzkowsky  followed  her  with  his  eyes.  If  she  had 
only  ventured  to  raise  her  looks  once  more  to  him,  she 
would  have  perceived  all  his  love,  all  the  forgiving  affec- 
tion of  a  father,  in  his  face.  But  she  did  not,  and  Gotz- 
kowsky said  to  himself,  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart, 
"  Why  should  I  speak  to  her? — she  would  only  misunder- 
stand me.  I  will  lie  down  and  sleep,  to  forget  my  cares 
and  my  sorrows.  I  will  not  speak  to  her,  for  I  am  ex- 
hausted, and  tired  to  death.  I  must  have  rest  and  com- 
posure, to  be  able  to  come  to  an  understanding  with 
her." 

And  yet  he  regarded  her  with  longing  looks  as  she 
directed  her  sad  steps  toward  the  door.  Now  she  stands 
on  the  threshold;  now  her  trembling  hand  clasps  the 
bright  handle  of  the  lock,  but  still  she  hesitates  to  open 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  255 

it;  she  still  hopes  for  a  word,  if  even  an  angry  one,  from 
her  father. 

And  now  she  hears  it.  Like  an  angel's  voice  does  it 
sound  in  her  ear.  He  calls  her  name,  he  reaches  his 
hand  out  to  her,  and  says  with  infinite,  touching  gentle- 
ness, "  Give  me  your  hand,  Elise.  Come  here  to  me,  my 
child — it  is  so  long  since  I  have  seen  you!  " 

She  turned  to  him,  and  yet  she  dared  not  look  upon 
him.  Seizing  his  offered  hand,  she  pressed  it  to  her 
lips.  "  And  do  you  remember  that  you  have  been  so 
long  absent?  You  have  not  then  forgotten  me?" 

"Forgot  you!"  cried  her  father  tenderly;  and  then 
immediately,  as  if  ashamed  of  this  outburst  of  fatherly 
love,  he  added  calmly  and  almost  sternly — "  I  have  much 
to  talk  with  you,  Elise.  You  have  accused  me." 

Elise  interrupted  him  with  anxious  haste:  "I  was 
beside  myself,"  said  she,  confused  and  bashfully.  "  For- 
give me,  my  father;  passion  made  me  unjust." 

"  No,  it  only  developed  what  lay  hidden  in  your 
heart,"  said  Gotzkowsky;  and  the  recollection  of  that 
unhappy  hour  roughened  his  voice,  and  filled  his  heart 
with  sadness.  "  For  the  first  time,  you  were  candid  with 
me.  I  may  have  been  guilty  of  it  all,  but  still  it  hurts!  " 
For  a  moment  he  was  silent,  and  sank  his  head  on  his 
breast,  completely  overpowered  by  painful  reminiscences. 

Elise  answered  nothing,  but  the  sight  of  his  pale  and 
visibly  exhausted  countenance  moved  her  to  tears. 

When  Gotzkowsky  raised  his  head  again,  his  face  had 
resumed  its  usual  determination  and  energy.  "  We  will 
talk  over  these  things  another  time,"  said  he  seriously. 
"  Only  this  one  thing,  remember.  I  will  not  restrain  you 
in  any  way,  and  I  have  never  done  so.  You  are  mistress 
of  every  thing  that  belongs  to  me  except  my  honor. 
This  I  myself  must  keep  unsullied.  As  a  German  gentle- 


256  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

man  I  cannot  bring  the  dishonor  upon  me  of  seeing  my 
daughter  unite  herself  to  the  enemy  of  my  country — 
to  a  Eussian.  Choose  some  German  man:  whoever  he 
may  be,  I  will  welcome  him  whom  you  love  as  my  son, 
and  renounce  the  wishes  and  plans  I  have  so  long  enter- 
tained.  But  never  will  I  give  my  consent  to  the  union 
of  my  only  child  with  a  Eussian." 

While  he  spoke  the  expression  of  the  countenance  of 
both  changed  surprisingly.  Both  evinced  determina- 
tion, defiance,  and  anger,  and  the  charm  which  love  had 
laid  for  a  moment  on  their  antagonistic  souls  was  de- 
stroyed. Gotzkowsky  was  no  longer  the  tender  father, 
easily  appeased  by  a  word,  but  the  patriot  injured  in  his 
holiest  right,  his  most  delicate  sense  of  honor.  Elise 
was  no  longer  the  humble,  penitent  daughter,  but  a 
bride  threatened  with  the  loss  of  her  lover. 

"  You  would,  then,  never  give  your  consent  ?  "  asked 
she,  passionately.  "  But  if  this  war  were  ended,  ii 
Eussia  were  no  longer  the  enemy  of  Germany;  if — " 

"  Eussia  remains  ever  the  enemy  of  Germany,  even  if 
ehe  does  not  appear  against  her  in  the  open  field.  It  is 
the  antagonism  of  despotic  power  against  culture  and 
civilization.  Never  can  the  free  German  be  the  friend  of 
the  barbarous  Sclavonian.  Let  us  hear  nothing  more  of 
this — you  know  my  mind;  I  cannot  change  it,  even  if 
you  should,  for  that  reason,  doubt  my  love.  True  love 
does  not  consist  only  in  granting,  but  still  more  in 
denying." 

Elise  stood  with  bowed  head,  and  murmured  some 
low,  unintelligible  words.  Gotzkowsky  felt  that  it 
would  be  better  for  both  to  break  off  this  conversation 
before  it  had  reached  a  point  of  bitterness  and  irritation. 
At  the  same  time  he  felt  that,  after  so  much  excitement, 
his  body  needed  rest.  He,  therefore,  approached  his 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  257 

daughter  and  extended  his  hand  toward  her  for  a  friend- 
ly farewell.  Elise  seized  it,  and  pressed  it  with  pas- 
sionate feeling  to  her  lips.  He  then  turned  round  and 
traversed  the  room  on  the  way  to  his  bedchamber. 

Elise  looked  after  him  with  painful  longing,  which 
increased  with  each  step  he  took.  As  he  was  in  the  act 
of  leaving  the  room  she  rushed  after  him,  and  uttered  in 
a  tone  of  gentle  pleading,  the  single  word,  "  Father!  " 

Gotzkowsky  felt  the  innermost  chord  of  his  heart 
touched.  He  turned  round  and  opened  his  arms  to  her. 
With  a  loud  cry  of  joy  she  threw  herself  on  his  breast, 
and  rested  there  for  a  moment  in  happy,  self-forgetting 
delight.  They  looked  at  one  another,  and  smilingly 
bade  each  other  good-by.  Again  Gotzkowsky  turned 
his  steps  toward  his  bedroom.  And  now  he  was  gone; 
she  saw  him  no  more.  Father  and  daughter  were  sepa- 
rated. 

But  Elise  felt  an  unutterable  grief  in  her  heart,  a 
boundless  terror  seized  her.  It  seemed  as  if  she  could 
not  leave  her  father;  as  if  it  would  be  a  disgrace  for  her, 
eo  secretly,  like  a  criminal,  to  sneak  out  of  her  father's 
house,  were  it  even  to  follow  her  lover  to  the  altar.  She 
felt  as  if  she  must  call  her  father  back,  cling  to  his 
knees,  and  implore  him  to  save  her,  to  save  her  from 
her  own  desires.  Already  had  she  opened  her  lips,  and 
stretched  forth  her  arms,  when  she  suddenly  let  them 
fall,  with  a  shudder. 

She  had  heard  the  loud  rolling  of  a  carriage,  and  she 
knew  what  it  meant.  This  carriage  which  stopped  at 
her  door — could  it  be  the  one  in  which  Feodor  had  come 
to  take  her?  "  It  is  too  late — I  cannot  go  back,"  mut- 
tered she  low,  and  with  drooping  head  she  slowly  left 
her  father's  room  in  order  to  repair  to  her  own  chamber. 


258  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTER   XV. 

THE    KIVALS. 

ELISE,  immediately  on  reaching  her  room,  hurried  to 
the  window  and  looked  into  the  street,  already  darkened 
by  the  shades  of  evening.  She  was  not  mistaken — a 
carriage  stood  at  the  door;  but  to  her  surprise,  she  did 
not  perceive  the  signal  agreed  on,  she  did  not  hear  the 
post-horn  blow  the  Russian  air,  "  Lovely  Minka,  I  must 
leave  thee."  Nor  was  it  the  appointed  hour;  neither 
did  her  chambermaid,  who  waited  in  the  lower  story, 
come  to  seek  her.  She  still  stood  at  the  window,  and 
involuntarily  she  felt  herself  worried  by  this  equipage. 
A  sharp  knocking  at  the  door  was  heard.  Before  she 
had  time  to  come  to  any  determination,  it  was  hastily 
opened,  and  Bertram  entered  with  a  lady,  deeply  veiled, 
on  his  arm. 

"  Bertram! "  cried  Elise,  drawing  back  shyly. 
"  What  do  you  wish  here  ?  " 

"  What  do  I  wish  here?  "  answered  Bertram,  earnest- 
ly. "  I  come  to  ask  a  favor  of  my  sister.  I  have  prom- 
ised this  lady  that  she  shall  see  and  speak  with  you.  Will 
my  sister  fulfil  her  brother's  promise?  " 

"What  does  the  lady  wish  with  me?"  asked  Elise, 
casting  a  timid  look  toward  the  mysterious  veiled 
figure. 

"  She  will  herself  tell  you.  She  requested  me,  with 
tears,  to  bring  her  to  Elise  Gotzkowsky,  for,  she  assured 
me,  the  happiness  of  her  life  depended  on  it." 

Elise  felt  an  icy  shudder  run  through  her.  She  laid 
her  hand  on  her  heart,  as  if  to  protect  it  against  the 
terrible  danger  which  she  felt  threatened  her,  and  with 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  259 

trembling  lip  she  repeated,  "  What  does  the  lady  wish 
with  me?" 

Bertram  did  not  answer  her,  but  letting  go  the  arm  of 
the  unknown,  he  bowed  low.  "  Countess,"  said  he, 
"this  is  Mademoiselle  Elise  Gotzkowsky.  I  have  ful- 
filled my  promise:  allow  me  now  to  leave  you,  and  may 
God  impart  convincing  power  to  your  words!  " 

He  greeted  the  ladies  respectfully,  and  left  the  room 
quickly.  The  two  ladies  were  now  alone  together.  A 
pause  ensued.  Both  trembled,  and  neither  ventured  to 
break  the  silence. 

"  You  desired  to  speak  to  me,"  said  Elise,  finally,  in 
a  low,  languid  voice.  "  May  I  now  beg  of  you — " 

The  lady  threw  back  her  veil,  and  allowed  Elise  to 
see  a  handsome  countenance,  moistened  with  tears.  "  It 
is  I  who  have  to  beg,"  said  she,  with  a  touching  foreign 
accent,  while  seizing  Elise's  hand,  she  pressed  it  warmly 
to  her  breast.  "  Forgive  me;  since  I  have  seen  you,  I 
have  forgotten  what  I  had  to  say.  At  sight  of  you,  all 
my  words,  and  even  my  anger  have  left  me.  You  are 
very  beautiful.  Be  as  noble  as  you  are  beautiful.  My 
fate  lies  in  your  hands.  You  can  restore  me  to  happi- 
ness." 

"  God  alone  can  do  that,"  said  Elise,  solemnly. 

"  At  this  moment  you  are  the  divinity  who  has  the 
disposal  of  my  fate.  You  alone  can  restore  me  to  happi- 
ness, for  you  have  deprived  me  of  it — yes,  you,  so  young, 
so  handsome,  and  apparently  so  innocent.  You  are  the 
murderess  of  my  happiness."  Her  eyes  sparkled,  and  a 
bright  blush  suffused  her  hitherto  pale  cheeks.  "  Yes," 
cried  she,  with  a  triumphant  laugh,  "  now  I  am  myself 
again.  My  hesitation  has  vanished,  and  anger  is  again 
supreme.  I  am  once  more  the  lioness,  and  ready  to  de- 
fend the  happiness  of  my  life." 


260  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Elise  drew  herself  up,  and  she,  too,  felt  a  change  in 
her  heart.  With  the  instinct  of  love,  she  felt  that  this 
handsome  woman  who  stood  opposite  to  her  was  her 
rival,  her  enemy  with  whom  she  had  to  struggle  for  her 
most  precious  property.  Passion  filled  her  whole  being, 
and  she  vowed  to  herself  not  to  yield  a  single  step  to  this 
proud  beauty.  With  an  expression  of  unspeakable  dis- 
dain, she  fixed  her  eyes  upon  the  countess.  Their  flash- 
ing looks  crossed  each  other  like  the  bright  blades  of  two 
combatants  in  a  duel. 

"I  do  not  understand  you/'  said  Elise,  with  angry 
coldness.  "  You  must  speak  more  plainly,  if  you  wish 
to  be  understood." 

"  You  do  not  wish  to  understand  me,"  cried  the 
countess.  "  You  wish  to  avoid  me,  but  I  will  not  let 
you.  I  have  suffered  so  much  that  I  will  not  suffer 
any  longer.  We  stand  here  opposite  each  other  as  two 
women  engaged  in  a  combat  for  life  and  death." 

Elise  suppressed  the  cry  of  pain  which  rose  in  her 
breast,  and  compelled  herself  to  assume  a  proud  and  im- 
passible composure.  "I  still  do  not  understand  you, 
nor  do  I  desire  to  contend  with  an  unknown  person. 
But  if  you  will  not  leave  my  room,  you  will  allow  me  to 
do  so." 

She  turned  to  go,  but  the  countess  seized  her  hand, 
and  held  her  back.  "No!  you  cannot  go!"  cried  she, 
passionately.  "  You  cannot  go,  for  I  know  that  you 
are  going  to  him,  to  him  whom  I  love,  and  I  come  to 
demand  this  man  of  you." 

These  half-threatening,  half-commanding  words,  at 
last  drove  Elise  from  the  assumed  tranquillity  she  had 
maintained  with  so  much  difficulty.  "  I  know  not  of 
whom  you  speak,"  cried  she,  in  a  loud  voice. 

But  the  countess  was  tired  of  dealing  in  these  half- 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

concealed  meanings,  these  mysterious  allusions.  "  You 
know  of  whom  I  speak/'  cried  she,  vehemently.  "  You 
know  that  I  have  come  to  demand  the  restoration  of  my 
holiest  possession,  the  heart  of  my  beloved.  Oh!  give 
him  back  to  me,  give  me  back  my  betrothed,  for  he  be- 
longs to  me,  and  cannot  be  another's.  Let  my  tears  per- 
suade you.  You  are  young,  rich,  handsome;  you  have 
every  thing  that  makes  life  happy.  I  have  nothing  but 
him.  Leave  him  to  me." 

Elise  felt  furious.  Like  a  tigress,  she  could  have 
strangled  this  woman,  who  came  to  destroy  her  happi- 
ness. A  wild,  angry  laugh  rang  from  her  lips:  "  Y"ou 
say  that  you  love  him,"  exclaimed  she.  "  Well,  then, 
go  to  him  and  ask  him  for  his  heart.  Why  do  you  de- 
mand it  of  me?  Win  it  from  him,  if  you  can." 

"  In  order  to  be  able  to  win  it,  you  must  first  release 
him  from  the  fetters  with  which  you  have  bound  him." 

An  angry  flush  overspread  Elise's  pale  face.  "  You 
become  insulting,"  she  said. 

The  countess  paid  no  attention  to  these  words,  but 
continued  still  more  vehemently:  "  Make  him  free. 
Loose  the  bands  which  fetter  him,  and  then,  I  am  sure, 
he  will  return  to  me  and  be  mine  again." 

Elise  stared  terrified  at  the  face  of  the  countess,  ex- 
cited and  streaming  with  tears.  She  had  heard  but  one 
little  word,  but  this  word  had  pierced  her  heart  like  a 
dagger. 

"Return  to  you?"  asked  she,  breathlessly.  "Be 
yours  again?  He  was  then  once  yours?  " 

"  I  yielded  to  him  what  is  most  sacred  in  life,  and 
yet  you  ask  if  he  was  mine!  "  said  the  countess,  smiling 
sadly. 

Elise  uttered  a  loud,  piercing  shriek,  and  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands.  Her  emotion  was  so  expressive  and 


262  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEELIN. 

painful  that  it  touched  the  heart  even  of  her  rival.  Al- 
most lovingly  she  passed  her  arm  around  Elise's  waist, 
and  drew  her  down  gently  to  her  on  the  sofa.  "  Come/' 
said  she,  "  let  us  sit  by  each  other  like  two  sisters.  Come, 
and  listen  to  me.  I  will  disclose  a  picture  which  will 
make  your  soul  shudder!  " 

Elise  yielded  to  her  mechanically.  She  let  herself 
involuntarily  glide  down  on  the  sofa,  and  suffered  the 
countess  to  take  her  hand.  "  Feodor  once  belonged  to 
her,"  she  murmured.  "  His  heart  was  once  given  to 
another." 

"Will  you  listen  to  me?"  asked  the  countess;  and, 
seeing  Elise  still  lost  in  silent  reverie,  she  continued:  "  I 
will  relate  to  you  the  history  of  Feodor  von  Brenda,  and 
his  unhappy,  forsaken  bride."  Elise  shuddered,  and  cast 
a  wandering,  despairing  look  around. 

"Will  you  listen  to  me?"  repeated  the  countess. 

"  Speak — I  am  listening,"  whispered  Elise,  languid- 
ly. And  then,  the  Countess  Lodoiska  von  Sandomir, 
often  interrupted  by  Elise's  plaintive  sighs,  her  out- 
bursts of  heartfelt  sympathy,  related  to  the  young  girl 
the  sad  and  painful  story  of  her  love  and  her  betrayal. 

She  was  a  young  girl,  scarcely  sixteen,  the  daughter 
of  a  prince,  impoverished  by  his  own  fault  and  prodigal- 
ity, when  she  became  the  victim  of  her  father's  avarice. 
Without  compassion  for  her  tears,  her  timid  youth,  he 
had  sold  her  for  a  million.  With  the  cruel  selfishness  of 
a  spendthrift  miser,  he  had  sold  his  young,  fresh,  beauti- 
ful daughter  for  dead,  shining  metal,  to  a  man  of  sixty 
years,  fit  to  be  her  grandfather,  and  who  persecuted  the 
innocent  girl  with  the  ardent  passion  of  a  stripling.  She 
had  been  dragged  to  the  altar,  and  the  priest  had  been 
deaf  to  the  "  No!  "  she  had  uttered,  when  falling  uncon- 
Bcious  at  his  feet.  Thus  she  had  become  the  wife  of  the 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  263 

rich  Count  Sandomir — a  miserable  woman  who  stood, 
amidst  the  splendor  of  life,  without  hope,  without  joy,  as 
in  a  desert. 

But  one  day  this  desert  had  changed,  and  spring 
bloomed  in  her  soul,  for  love  had  come  to  warm  her 
chilled  heart  with  the  sunbeam  of  happiness.  She  did 
not  reproach  herself,  nor  did  she  feel  any  scruples  of 
conscience,  that  it  was  not  her  husband  whom  she  loved. 
What  respect  could  she  have  for  marriage,  when  for  her 
it  had  been  only  a  matter  of  sale  and  purchase  ?  She  had 
been  traded  off  like  a  slave,  and  with  happy  exultation 
she  said  to  herself,  "  Love  has  come  to  make  me  free, 
and,  as  a  free  and  happy  woman,  I  will  tear  this  con- 
tract by  which  I  have  been  sold."  And  she  had  torn  it. 
She  had  had  no  compassion  on  the  gray  hairs  and  de- 
voted heart  of  her  noble  husband.  She  had  been  sacri- 
ficed, and  now  pitilessly  did  she  sacrifice  her  husband 
to  her  lover.  She  saw  but  one  duty  before  her — to 
reward  the  love  of  the  man  she  adored  with  boundless 
devotion.  No  concealment,  no  disguise  would  she  allow. 
Any  attempt  at  equivocation  she  regarded  as  an  act  of 
treason  to  the  great  and  holy  feeling  which  possessed 
her  whole  soul. 

Usually  all  the  world  is  acquainted  with  the  treach- 
ery and  infidelity  of  a  woman,  while  it  is  yet  a  secret  to 
her  husband.  But  the  countess  took  care  that  her  hus- 
band should  be  the  first  to  learn  of  his  injured  honor,  her 
broken  faith.  She  had  hoped  that  he  would  turn  from 
her  in  anger,  and  break  the  marriage-bond  which  united 
her  to  him.  But  her  husband  did  not  liberate  her.  He 
challenged  the  betrayer  of  his  honor,  whose  treachery 
was  the  blacker,  because  the  count  himself  had  intro- 
duced him  into  his  house,  as  the  son  of  the  friend  of 
his  youth.  They  fought.  It  was  a  deadly  combat,  and 


THE   MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

the  old  man  of  sixty,  already  bowed  down  by  rage  and 
grief,  could  not  stand  against  the  strength  of  his  young 
and  practised  adversary.  He  was  overcome.  The  dy- 
ing husband  had  been  brought  to  Countess  Lodoiska, 
his  head  supported  by  his  murderer,  her  lover.  Even 
in  this  terrible  moment  she  felt  no  anger  against  him, 
and  as  the  eyes  of  her  husband  grew  dull  in  death, 
she  could  only  remember  that  she  was  now  free  to  be- 
come his  wife.  She  had  thrown  herself  at  the  feet  of  the 
empress  to  implore  her  consent  to  this  marriage,  on 
which  depended  the  hope  and  happiness,  the  honor  and 
atonement  of  her  life.  The  empress  had  not  refused  her 
consent,  had  herself  appointed  the  wedding  day  which 
should  unite  her  favorite  with  the  young  countess. 

But  a  short  time  before  the  arrival  of  this  day,  so 
ardently  longed  for,  looked  forward  to  with  so  many 
prayers,  such  secret  anxiety  and  gnawing  self-reproaches, 
the  war  broke  out,  and  Lodoiska  did  not  dare  to  keep 
back  her  lover,  as  with  glowing  zeal  he  hastened  to  his 
colors.  He  had  sworn  to  her  never  to  forget  her;  to  re- 
turn faithful  to  her,  and  she  had  believed  him. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

THE    PUNISHMENT. 

ELISE  had  followed  the  countess  in  her  narration 
with  intense  attention  and  warm  sympathy.  Her  face 
had  become  pale  as  marble,  her  countenance  sad,  and  her 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  A  fearful  anticipation  dawned  in 
her  heart,  but  she  turned  away  from  it.  She  would 
not  listen  to  this  secret  voice  which  whispered  to  her 


THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN.  205 

that  this  sad  tale  of  the  countess  had  reference  to  her 
own  fate. 

"  Your  lover  did  not  deceive  your  trust?  "  asked  she. 
"  With  such  a  bloody  seal  upon  your  love  he  dare  not 
break  his  faith." 

"  He  did  break  it,"  answered  the  countess,  painfully. 
"  I  was  nothing  more  to  him  than  a  guilty  woman,  and 
he  went  forth  to  seek  an  angel.  He  forgot  his  vows,  his 
obligations,  and  cast  me  away,  for  I  was  a  burden  to 
him." 

Both  were  silent  in  the  bitterness  of  their  sorrow. 
The  countess  fastened  her  large,  bright  eyes  upon  the 
young  girl,  who  stared  before  her,  pale,  motionless,  ab- 
sorbed in  her  own  grief. 

This  anxious  silence  was  finally  broken  by  the 
countess.  "  I  have  not  yet  told  you  the  name  of  my 
lover.  Shall  I  name  him  to  you  ?  " 

Elise  awoke  as  if  from  a  heavy  dream.  "  No,"  cried 
she,  eagerly,  "  no,  do  not  name  him.  What  have  I  to  do 
with  him?  I  do  not  know  him.  What  do  I  care  to 
hear  the  name  of  a  man  who  has  committed  so  great 
a  crime?" 

"  You  must  hear  it,"  said  the  countess,  solemnly. 
"You  must  learn  the  name  of  the  man  who  chained 
me  to  him  by  a  bloody,  guilt-stained  past,  and  then  de- 
serted me.  It  is  Colonel  Count  Feodor  von  Brenda!  " 

Elise  uttered  a  cry,  and  sank,  half  fainting,  back  on 
the  cushions  of  the  sofa.  But  this  dejection  did  not 
last  long.  Her  heart,  which  for  a  moment  seemed  to 
stop,  resumed  again  its  tumultuous  beating;  her  blood 
coursed  wildly  through  her  veins,  and  her  soul,  unused 
to  the  despair  of  sorrow,  resolved  to  make  one  last  effort 
to  free  itself  from  the  fetters  with  which  her  evil  fate 
wished  to  encompass  her.  She  drew  herself  up  with 


266  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

glowing  cheeks  and  flashing  eyes.  "  This  is  false,"  she 
cried;  "  a  miserable  invention,  concocted  to  separate  me 
from  Feodor.  Oh!  I  see  through  it  all.  I  understand 
now  my  father's  solemn  asseverations,  and  why  Bertram 
brought  you  to  me.  But  you  are  all  mistaken  in  me. 
Go,  countess,  and  tell  your  friends,  '  Elise  offers  up 
every  thing  and  gives  every  thing  to  him  whom  she  loves, 
in  whom  she  believes,  even  if  the  whole  world  testifies 
against  him.'  "  And  with  a  triumphant  smile,  throwing 
back  her  head,  she  stood  up  and  was  about  to  leave  the 
room. 

The  countess  shrugged  her  shoulders  as  if  in  pity. 
"You  do  not  believe  me,  then?"  said  she;  "but  you 
will  believe  this  witness?  "  and  she  drew  a  letter  from 
her  bosom  and  handed  it  to  Elise. 

"  It  is  his  handwriting,"  cried  the  young  girl,  terri- 
fied, as  she  took  the  letter. 

"  Ah!  you  know  his  handwriting,  then?  He  has 
written  to  you,  too?  "sighed  the  countess.  "Well, 
then,  read  it.  It  is  a  letter  he  wrote  me  from  Berlin  at 
the  commencement  of  his  captivity.  Read  it! " 

"  Yes,  I  will  read  it,"  murmured  Elise.  "  These 
written  words  pierce  my  eyes  like  daggers,  but  I  will  not 
mind  the  pain.  I  will  read  it." 

She  read  the  letter,  which  annihilated  her  whole 
happiness,  slowly  and  with  terrible  composure.  Drop 
by  drop  did  she  let  the  poison  of  these  words  of  love, 
directed  to  another,  fall  into  her  soul.  When  she  had 
finished  reading  it,  she  repeated  to  herself  the  last  cruel 
words,  the  warm  protestations,  with  which  Feodor  as- 
sured his  bride  of  his  unalterable  love  and  fidelity,  with 
which  he  swore  to  her  that  he  looked  upon  his  love  to 
her  not  only  as  a  happiness,  but  as  a  sacred  obligation ; 
that  he  owed  her  not  only  his  heart  but  his  honor. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  267 

Then  long  and  carefully  she  considered  the  signature 
of  his  name,  and  folding  up  the  paper,  she  handed  it 
back,  with  a  slight  inclination  to  the  countess. 

"  Oh,  my  God!  I  have  loved  him  beyond  bounds," 
muttered  she,  low;  and  then,  unable  to  restrain  her 
tears,  she  put  her  hands  to  her  face  and  wept  aloud. 

"Poor,  unhappy  girl!  "  exclaimed  the  countess,  lay- 
ing her  arm  tenderly  around  her  neck. 

Elise  drew  back  violently  and  regarded  her  almost  in 
anger.  "  Do  not  commiserate  me.  I  will  not  be  pitied 
by  you!  I—" 

She  suddenly  stopped,  and  an  electric  shock  passed 
through  her  whole  frame.  She  heard  the  concerted 
signal;  and  the  tones  of  the  post-horn,  which  slowly  and 
heavily  sounded  the  notes  of  the  sad  Russian  melody, 
grated  on  her  ear  like  a  terrible  message  of  misfortune. 

The  two  women  stood  for  a  moment  silent  and  mo- 
tionless. They  both  listened  to  the  dirge  of  their  love 
and  their  happiness,  and  this  simple,  hearty  song  sound- 
ed to  them  horrible  and  awful  in  the  boundless  desolation 
of  their  hearts.  At  last  the  song  ceased,  and  a  voice, 
too  well  known  and  loved,  cried,  "  Elise!  Elise!  " 

The  maiden  started  up,  shuddering  and  terrified. 
"  His  voice  frightens  me." 

But  still  she  seemed  not  to  be  able  to  withstand  the 
call;  for  she  approached  the  window,  and  looked  down 
hesitatingly. 

The  countess  observed  her  jealously,  and  a  fearful 
thought  suddenly  entered  her  mind.  How,  if  this 
young  girl  loved  him  as  much  as  she  did?  If  she  were 
ready  to  forgive  him  every  thing,  to  blot  out  the  whole 
past  with  the  hand  of  love  and  commence  a  new  exist- 
ence with  him?  If  she  felt  no  compassion  for  Feodor's 
forsaken  bride,  and  were  willing  to  trample  triumphant- 


268  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

ly  on  her  broken  heart  at  the  call  of  her  lover,  and  follow 
him  to  the  altar?  Her  whole  soul  writhed  in  pain. 
"  Follow  his  call,"  cried  she,  with  a  derisive  smile. 
"Leave  your  father,  whom  you  have  betrayed,  for  the 
sake  of  a  traitor!  You  have  vowed  to  love  him.  Go  and 
keep  your  vow." 

Outside  Feeder's  voice  called  Elise's  name  louder 
and  more  pressingly.  A  moment  she  listened,  then 
rushed  to  the  window,  threw  it  open,  and  called  out,  "  I 
come,  I  come! " 

Lodoiska  flew  to  her;  drew  back  the  young  girl 
violently  from  the  window,  and  throwing  both  arms 
firmly  around  her,  said,  almost  breathlessly,  "  Trai- 
tress! You  shall  not  cross  this  threshold!  I  will  call 
your  father.  I  will  call  the  whole  household  together! 
I  will—" 

"  You  will  call  no  one,"  interrupted  Elise,  and  her 
proud,  cold  composure  awed  even  the  countess.  "  You 
will  call  no  one,  for  I  stay,  and  you — you  go  in  my 
stead." 

"  What  say  you  ?  "  asked  Lodoiska. 

Elise  raised  her  arm  and  pointed  solemnly  to  the 
window.  "  I  say,"  cried  she,  "  that  your  bridegroom  is 
waiting  down  there  for  you.  Go,  then." 

With  an  exclamation  of  joy  the  countess  pressed  her 
in  her  arms.  "  You  renounce  him,  then  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  part  in  him,"  said  Elise  coldly.  "  He  be- 
longs to  you;  he  is  bound  to  you  by  your  disgrace  and 
his  crime.  Go  to  him,"  cried  she  more  violently,  as  she 
saw  that  the  countess  looked  at  her  doubtingly.  "  Has- 
ten, for  he  is  waiting  for  you." 

"But  he  will  recognize  me;  he  will  drive  me  from 
him." 

Elise  pointed  to  her  clothes,  which  were  placed  ready 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  269 

for  her  departure.  "  There  lie  my  hat  and  cloak/"  said 
she  haughtily.  "  Take  them;  drop  the  veil.  He  knows 
this  dress,  and  he  will  think  it  is  me." 

At  this  moment  the  door  was  torn  open,  and  Ber- 
tram burst  in.  "  Make  haste,"  he  cried,  "  or  all  is  lost. 
Count  Feodor  is  becoming  impatient,  and  may  himself 
venture  to  come  for  Elise.  Gotzkowsky,  too,  has  been 
awakened  by  the  unaccustomed  sound  of  the  post-horn." 

"  Help  the  countess  to  prepare  for  the  journey," 
cried  Elise,  standing  still,  motionless,  and  as  if  para- 
lyzed. 

Bertram  looked  at  her,  astonished  and  inquiringly; 
but  in  a  few  rapid  words  the  countess  explained  to  him 
Elise's  intention  and  determination,  to  allow  her  to  take 
the  journey  in  her  stead,  and  with  her  clothes. 

Bertram  cast  on  Elise  a  look  which  mirrored  forth 
the  admiration  he  felt  for  this  young  girl,  who  had  so 
heroically  gained  the  victory  over  herself.  His  reliance 
on  her  maiden  pride,  her  sense  of  right  and  honor,  had 
not  been  deceived. 

The  countess  had  now  finished  her  toilet,  and  donned 
Elise's  hat  and  cloak. 

Bertram  called  on  her  to  hasten,  and  she  approached 
Elise  to  bid  her  farewell,  and  express  her  gratitude  for 
the  sacrifice  she  had  made  for  her.  But  Elise  waved  her 
back  proudly  and  coldly,  and  seemed  to  shudder  at  her 
touch. 

"  Go  to  your  husband,  countess,"  cried  she,  and  her 
voice  was  hoarse  and  cold. 

Lodoiska's  eyes  filled  with  tears.  Once  more  she 
attempted  to  take  Elise's  hand,  but  the  latter  firmly 
crossed  her  arms  and  looked  at  her  almost  threateningly. 
"  Go!  "  said  she,  in  a  loud,  commanding  voice. 

Bertram  took  the  arm  of  the  countess  and  drew  her 
18 


270  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

to  the  door.  "Hasten!"  said  he;  "there  is  no  time 
to  lose." 

The  door  closed  behind  them.  Elise  was  alone. 
She  stood  and  listened  to  their  departing  steps;  she 
heard  the  house  door  open;  she  heard  the  post-horn  once 
more  sound  out  merrily,  and  then  cease.  "  I  am  alone!  " 
she  screamed,  with  a  heart-rending  cry.  "  They  are 
gone;  I  am  alone!  "  And  stretching  her  arms  despair- 
ingly to  heaven,  and  almost  beside  herself,  she  cried  out, 
"  0  God!  will  no  one  have  compassion  on  me?  will  no 
one  pity  me  ?  " 

"  Elise,"  said  her  father,  opening  the  room  door. 

She  sprang  toward  him  with  a  loud  exclamation, 
she  rushed  into  his  arms,  embraced  him,  and,  nestling  in 
his  bosom,  she  exclaimed  faintly,  "  Have  pity  on  me, 
my  father;  do  not  drive  me  from  you!  You  are  my 
only  refuge  in  this  world." 

Gotzkowsky  pressed  her  firmly  to  his  breast  and 
looked  gratefully  to  heaven.  "  Oh!  I  well  knew  my 
daughter's  heart  would  return  to  her  father." 

He  kissed  ardently  her  beautiful,  glossy  hair,  and  her 
head  that  was  resting  on  his  breast.  "  Do  not  weep,  my 
child,  do  not  weep,"  whispered  he,  tenderly. 

"  Let  me  weep,"  she  answered,  languidly;  "  you  do 
no  know  how  much  sorrow  and  grief  pass  off  with  these 
tears." 

The  sound  of  the  post-horn  was  now  heard  from  the 
street  below  and  then  the  rapid  rolling  of  a  carriage. 

Elise  clung  still  more  closely  to  her  father.  "  Save 
me,"  she  cried.  "  Press  me  firmly  to  your  heart.  I  am 
quite  forsaken  in  this  world." 

The  door  was  thrown  open  and  Bertram  rushed  in, 
out  of  breath,  exclaiming:  "  She  is  gone!  he  did  not 
recognize  her,  and  took  her  for  you.  The  countess — " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  271 

He  stopped  suddenly  and  looked  at  Gotzkowsky,  of 
whose  presence  he  had  just  become  aware. 

Gotzkowsky  inquired  in  astonishment,  "Who  is 
gone?  What  does  all  this  mean?  " 

Elise  raised  herself  from  his  arms  and  gazed  at  him 
with  flashing  eyes.  "  It  means,"  she  answered,  "  that 
the  happiness  of  my  life  is  broken,  that  all  is  deception 
and  falsehood  where  I  looked  for  love,  and  faith,  and 
happiness! "  With  a  touching  cry  of  suffering,  she  fell 
fainting  in  her  father's  arms. 

"  Do  not  rouse  her,  father,"  said  Bertram,  bending 
over  hei;  "  grant  her  this  short  respite,  for  she  has  a 
great  sorrow  to  overcome.  When  she  comes  to  herself 
again,  she  will  love  none  but  you,  her  father." 

Gotzkowsky  pressed  his  lips  on  her  brow,  and  blessed 
her  in  his  thoughts.  "  She  will  find  in  me  a  father," 
said  he,  with  deep  emotion,  "  who,  if  necessary,  can 
weep  with  her.  My  eyes  are  unused  to  tears,  but  a  father 
may  be  allowed  to  weep  with  his  daughter  when  she  is 
suffering." 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

THE   BANQUET   OF   GKATITUDE. 

BEKLIN  had  recovered  from  the  terrors  it  had  under- 
gone. It  was  eight  days  since  the  enemy  had  left,  and 
every  thing  was  quiet  and  calm.  But  on  this  day  the 
quiet  was  to  be  interrupted  by  a  public  merry-making. 
Berlin,  which  had  suffered  so  much,  was  to  rejoice 
again. 

The  festival  which  was  to  be  celebrated,  was  intended 
for  none  else  than  John  Gotzkowsky,  the  Merchant  of 


272  THE  MERCHANT   OF   BERLIN. 

Berlin,  the  man  whom  all  looked  upon  as  their  guardian 
angel  and  savior.  He  had  cheerfully  borne  hardship 
and  toil,  danger  and  injustice,  for  the  good  of  his  fellow- 
men;  he  had  always  been  found  helping  and  ready  to 
serve,  unselfish  and  considerate.  The  whole  town  was 
under  obligation  to  him;  he  had  served  all  classes  of  so- 
ciety, and  they  all  wished  to  evince  their  gratitude  to 
him. 

Gotzkowsky  had  been  requested  to  remain  at  home 
on  the  morning  of  the  festal  day,  but  to  hold  himself  in 
readiness  to  receive  several  deputations.  They  were  to  be 
succeeded  by  a  grand  dinner,  given  by  the  citizens  of 
Berlin  in  his  honor.  They  were  to  eat  and  drink,  be 
merry,  and  enjoy  themselves  to  his  glorification;  they 
were  to  drink  his  health  in  foaming  glasses  of  cham- 
pagne, and  Gotzkowsky  was  to  look  upon  it  all  as  a  grand 
festival  with  which  the  good  citizens  of  Berlin  were 
glorifying  him,  while  they  themselves  were  enjoying  the 
luscious  viands  and  fragrant  wines. 

In  vain  did  Gotzkowsky  refuse  to  accept  the  prof- 
fered festival.  At  first  he  tried  to  excuse  himself  on 
the  plea  of  his  daughter's  illness,  alleging  that  he  could 
not  leave  her  bedside.  But  information  had  been  ob- 
tained from  her  physician,  who  reported  her  out  of 
danger,  and  that  Gotzkowsky  might  leave  her  for  several 
hours  without  risk.  Gotzkowsky  being  able  to  find  no 
other  excuse,  was  obliged  to  accept.  Elise  was  indeed 
sick.  The  grief  and  despair  of  her  betrayed  and  de- 
ceived heart  had  prostrated  her;  and  her  wild,  fever- 
dreams,  her  desponding  complaints,  the  reproachful  con- 
versations she  carried  on  with  her  lover — unseen  but 
nevertheless  present  in  her  delirium — had  betrayed  her 
secret  to  her  father.  Full  of  emotion,  he  thanked  God 
for  her  happy  escape,  and  felt  no  resentment  against 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  273 

this  poor,  misguided  child,  who  had  taken  refuge  from 
the  loneliness  of  her  heart,  in  his  love,  as  in  a  haven 
of  shelter.  He  only  reproached  his  own  want  of  dis- 
cernment, as  he  said  to  himself:  "  Elise  had  cause  to  be 
angry  with  me  and  to  doubt  my  affection.  I  bore  soli- 
tude and  the  constant  separation  from  my  daughter  be- 
cause I  thought  I  was  working  for  her,  but  I  forgot  that 
at  the  same  time  she  was  solitary  and  alone,  that  she 
missed  a  father's  tenderness  as  I  did  my  child's  love. 
I  wished  to  make  her  rich,  and  I  have  only  made  her 
poor  and  wretched." 

He  kissed  her  burning,  feverish  forehead,  he  be- 
dewed it  with  tears,  and  forgave  her,  from  the  bottom  of 
his  heart,  her  misplaced  love,  her  errors  and  transgres- 
sions. She  was  with  him;  she  had  returned  to  his  heart. 
In  her  despair  she  had  fled  to  the  bosom  of  her  father, 
and  sought  support  and  assistance  from  him. 

The  dark  clouds  had  all  rolled  over,  and  the  heavens 
were  again  bright  and  clear.  Berlin  was  freed  from  the 
enemy.  Elise  was  convalescent,  and  the  town  of  Berlin 
was  preparing  for  her  noblest  citizen  a  banquet  of  grati- 
tude. 

The  appointed  hour  had  arrived  for  Gotzkowsky  to 
receive  the  deputations,  and  he  betook  himself  to  the  hall 
next  the  garden.  A  thundering  hurrah  received  him. 
It  proceeded  from  his  workmen,  who  had  come  in  pro- 
cession through  the  garden,  and  were  waving  their  hats 
and  caps.  They  were  followed  by  a  multitude  of  women 
in  black.  This  day  they  had  laid  aside  the  tears  and 
griefs  for  their  husbands  and  sons  fallen  in  battle,  in  or- 
der to  thank  Gotzkowsky  with  a  smile  for  the  magnani- 
mous kindness  with  which  he  had  taken  their  part  and 
secured  their  future. 

Following  these  women  came  the  poor  orphans,  with 


274:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

mourning-crape  on  their  arms.  They  rushed  forward 
joyously  toward  Gotzkowsky,  stretching  out  their  little 
hands  to  him,  and,  at  a  word  from  the  head  operative, 
Balthazar,  they  stretched  open  their  small  mouths,  and 
gave  out  such  a  shrill  and  crashing  hurrah  that  the  win- 
dows rattled,  and  many  a  stout  workman  stopped  his 
ears  and  felt  a  ringing  in  his  head. 

"  One  more  hurrah!  "  cried  the  enthusiastic  Baltha- 
zar; and  "  hurrah! "  screamed  and  squeaked  the  chil- 
dren. 

"  And  now  for  a  third — " 

But  Gotzkowsky  seized  hold  of  Balthazar's  arm  which 
he  was  about  to  move  again,  and  with  a  look  of  comical 
terror,  exclaimed :  "  But,  man,  don't  you  know  that  I 
have  further  use  for  my  ears  to-day?  You  deafen  me 
with  your  screaming.  That's  enough." 

Balthazar  struggled  himself  free  from  the  strong 
grasp  of  his  master,  and  placed  himself  in  a  theatrical 
position  opposite  to  him.  He  was  able  this  day  to  in- 
dulge in  his  passion  for  eloquence,  for  the  workmen  had 
chosen  him  for  their  orator,  and  he  had  a  right  to  speak. 
As  he  spoke,  it  could  be  seen  by  his  sparkling  eyes,  and 
by  his  fiery  enthusiasm,  that  his  words  had  not  been 
learned  by  rote,  but  proceeded  from  his  heart. 

"  Sir,  allow  me  to  speak  and  express  my  joy,  for  it  is 
a  joy  to  have  a  noble  master.  Look  at  these  children, 
dear  master.  Three  days  ago  they  had  fathers  who 
could  work  and  care  for  them.  But  the  cannon-balls  de- 
prived them  of  their  fathers,  and  God  sent  them  a 
father,  and  you  are  he.  You  adopted  these  children 
when  they  were  forsaken  by  all  else.  You  said:  '  God 
forbid  that  the  children  of  these  brave  men,  who  had 
fallen  in  defence  of  the  liberty  of  Berlin,  should  be 
orphans!  I  will  be  their  father/  Yes,  sir,  that  is  what 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  275 

you  said,  and  all  the  weeping  mothers  and  all  your  work- 
men heard  it  and  wrote  it  down  in  their  hearts.  Ask 
these  widows  for  whom  they  pray  to  God.  Ask  the 
poor  who  were  without  bread  and  whom  you  fed.  Ask 
the  whole  town  who  it  is  whom  they  bless  and  praise. 
They  will  all  name  the  name  of  Gotzkowsky;  with  one 
voice  they  will  all  cry  out:  "  Long  live  our  friend  and 
father!  Long  live  Gotzkowsky!  " 

Unanimously  did  all  join  in  this  cry,  shouting  out, 
"Long  live  Gotzkowsky!" 

Deeply  moved,  Gotzkowsky  stretched  out  his  hands 
to  the  workmen,  and  accepted,  with  cordial  gratification, 
the  flowers  offered  by  the  children.  "  Thank  you,  thank 
you,"  cried  he,  in  a  voice  of  deep  emotion.  "  You  have 
richly  recompensed  me,  for  I  perceive  that  you  love  me, 
and  nothing  can  be  more  beautiful  than  love." 

"  Diamonds! "  cried  out  Ephraim,  as  he  made  his 
way  through  the  crowd  with  Itzig  and  a  deputation  of 
the  Jews,  toward  the  hero  of  the  day — "  diamonds  are 
more  valuable  than  love,  Gotzkowsky.  Look  at  this 
brilliant,  which  sparkles  and  shines  more  brightly  than 
ever  did  a  look  of  love  from  any  human  eye." 

He  presented  to  Gotzkowsky  a  costly  solitaire  dia- 
mond, and  continued:  "  Be  so  kind  and  grant  us  the  fa- 
vor of  accepting  this  present.  It  is  a  diamond  of  the 
first  water." 

"It  is  a  petrified  tear  of  joy,"  interrupted  Itzig, 
"  shed  by  us  on  our  delivery  by  you  from  taxation.  You 
are  our  greatest  benefactor,  our  best  friend.  You  have 
proved  yourself  the  savior  of  the  Jews,  for  you  freed  us 
from  the  tax,  and  saved  us  what  is  more  precious  than 
honor,  and  rank,  and  happiness — our  money;  for,  with- 
out money,  the  Jew  is  nobody.  Accept,  therefore,  the 
ring,  and  wear  it  for  our  sakes." 


276  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

"  Accept  it,  we  pray  you/'  cried  Ephraim,  and  the 
Jews  took  up  the  cry. 

Gotzkowsky  took  the  ring,  and  placed  it  on  his  finger, 
thanking  the  givers  for  the  costly  present,  and  assuring 
them  he  would  wear  it  with  pleasure  in  honor  of  them. 

Itzig's  brow  was  clouded  with  a  slight  frown,  and 
stepping  back  to  Ephraim  and  his  friends,  he  muttered, 
"  He  accepts  it.  I  was  in  hopes  he  would  refuse  it,  for 
it  cost  much  money,  and  we  could  have  made  very  good 
use  of  it." 

The  solemn  advance  of  the  honorable  gentlemen  of 
the  Berlin  Town  Council  interrupted  Itzig's  private  so- 
liloquy, and  drew  his  attention  toward  the  chief  burgo- 
master, Herr  von  Kircheisen,  who,  in  all  the  splendor 
and  dignity  of  his  golden  chain  and  of  his  office,  accom- 
panied by  the  senators  and  town  officers,  strode  pomp- 
ously through  the  crowd,  and  presented  his  hand  to 
Gotzkowsky,  who  was  respectfully  advancing  to  meet 
him. 

"  The  Council  of  Berlin  has  come  to  thank  you.  For 
it  is  an  unparalleled  example  for  a  man  to  undertake 
and  go  through  what  you  have  done  for  us,  without  any 
interest,  without  any  ulterior  object." 

"  You  make  me  out  better  than  I  am,"  replied  Gotz- 
kowsky, smiling  at  Herr  von  Kircheisen's  pompous 
words.  "I  had  an  ulterior  object.  I  wished  to  gain 
the  love  of  my  fellow-citizens.  If  I  have  succeeded,  I 
am  more  than  rewarded,  and  I  pray  you  say  no  more  on 
the  subject/' 

The  chief  burgomaster  shook  his  head  majestically. 
"  You  have  exercised  toward  us  the  virtue  of  philan- 
thropy. Allow  us  to  exercise  toward  you  in  return  the 
virtue  of  gratitude."  He  took  from  the  hands  of  the 
assistant  burgomaster  a  dark-red  etui,  from  which  he 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  277 

drew  a  wreath  of  oak-leaves,  worked  in  silver,  which  he 
presented  to  Gotzkowsky.  "John  Gotzkowsky,"  said 
he,  solemnly,  "  the  Council  and  citizens  of  Berlin  re- 
quest you,  through  me,  to  accept  this  memorial  of  their 
love  and  gratitude.  It  is  the  civic  crown  of  your  mag- 
nanimity. Eeceive  it  from  our  hands,  and  accept  also 
our  vow  that  we  will  never  forget  what  you  have  done 
for  the  town  of  Berlin." 

Tears  of  delight,  of  heart-felt  joy  stood  in  Gotzkow- 
sky's  eyes  as  he  took  the  oaken  crown  from  his  hands, 
and  glowing  words  of  gratitude  poured  from  his  lips. 

Not  far  off,  in  a  niche  of  a  window  of  the  hall,  stood 
Messrs.  Krause  and  Kretschmer,  with  sullen  looks,  wit- 
nessing the  homage  paid  to  Gotzkowsky,  their  souls 
filled  with  envy  and  rage.  They,  too,  had  come  to 
thank  him,  but  with  unwilling  hearts,  because  they 
could  not  be  well  absent  from  the  festivities  which  the 
whole  town  offered  him.  But  they  were  vexed  to  see 
this  man,  whom  they  hated  from  the  bottom  of  their 
hearts,  because  of  their  obligations  to  him,  so  univer- 
sally honored  and  beloved.  It  annoyed  them  to  see  the 
pleasant  and  affable  smile  with  which  the  otherwise 
proud  burgomaster  conversed  with  him;  to  see  with 
what  cordial  friendship  the  senators  and  councilmen 
surrounded  him. 

"  I  came  hither,"  said  Mr.  Krause,  softly,  "  to  thank 
Gotzkowsky  for  saving  us,  but  I  must  confess  it  worries 
me  to  see  him  so  glorified." 

Mr.  Kretschmer  shrugged  his  shoulders  contemptu- 
ously. "  Let  them  praise  him,"  said  he;  "  the  Vossian 
Gazette  will  not  notice  it,  and  I  will  not  write  the  small- 
est article  on  this  occasion.  As  for  the  service  he 
rendered  us — well,  certainly,  it  would  have  been  un- 
pleasant to  have  been  flogged,  but  then  we  would  have 


278  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

been  martyrs  to  our  liberal  opinions;  the  whole  world 
would  have  admired  and  pitied  us,  and  the  king  would 
not  have  refused  us  a  pension." 

"Certainly,"  whispered  Mr.  Krause,  "he  would 
have  granted  us  a  pension,  and  the  whipping  would  have 
made  us  famous.  It  has  never  been  forgotten  of  the 
English  poet,  Payne,  that  King  Charles  the  First  had  his 
ears  cut  off,  because  he  wrote  against  him.  He  is  not 
celebrated  for  his  writings,  but  for  his  chopped  ears. 
We,  too,  might  have  become  famous  if  this  Gotzkowsky 
had  not,  in  the  most  uncalled-for  manner,  interfered, 
and — but  look!  "  cried  he,  interrupting  himself,  "  the 
interview  with  the  Council  is  finished,  and  it  is  now  our 
turn  to  thank  him." 

The  two  editors  hastened  toward  him  in  order,  in 
well-arranged  speech,  and  with  assurances  of  eternal 
gratitude,  to  offer  their  thanks. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

A   ROYAL   LETTER. 

MB.  KRAU.SE  had  not  yet  finished  the  declamation  of 
the  poem  which  his  inspiration  had  produced  in  honor 
of  Gotzkowsky,  when  a  loud  noise  was  heard  at  the  door 
of  the  hall,  and  Gotzkowsky's  body-servant  rushed  in. 
A  messenger  of  the  Council  was  without,  he  announced; 
a  letter  had  just  arrived  from  the  king,  and,  as  he  was 
to  deliver  it  to  the  burgomaster  in  person,  the  messenger 
had  brought  him  here.  He  handed  Herr  von  Kircheisen 
a  letter,  and  the  latter  broke  the  seal  with  majestic  com- 
posure. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  279 

A  pause  of  anxious  expectation  ensued.  Each  one 
inquired  of  himself  with  trembling  heart  what  could 
be  the  meaning  of  this  royal  letter. 

The  countenance  of  the  chief  magistrate  grew  more 
and  more  cheerful,  and  suddenly  he  called  aloud:  "  This 
is  indeed  a  message  of  gladness  for  our  poor  town.  The 
king,  our  gracious  lord,  releases  us  from  our  obligation 
to  pay  the  promised  war-tax  of  a  million  and  a  half. 
He  wishes  to  retaliate  for  the  Wurzburg  and  Bamberg 
bonds  captured  from  the  Aulic  Council.  For  which  rea- 
son his  majesty's  order  is  that  we  do  not  pay." 

A  single  cry  of  joy  sounded  from  the  lips  of  all  pres- 
ent. Gotzkowsky  alone  was  silent,  with  downcast  eyes, 
and  his  earnest,  pensive  expression  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  bright,  joyous  countenances  which  were  illumi- 
nated by  the  order  of  the  king  to  keep  their  money. 

Among  the  happiest  and  most  radiant,  however,  were 
the  rich  mint  farmers  Ephraim  and  Itzig,  and  the  chief 
burgomaster. 

"  The  royal  decree  relieves  our  town  of  a  horrible 
burden,"  said  Herr  von  Kircheisen,  with  a  happy  smile. 

"  The  whole  mercantile  community  must  be  grateful 
to  the  king,"  cried  Ephraim.  "  Berlin  saves  a  million 
and  a  half,  and  the  Eussian  is  sold." 

Suddenly  Gotzkowsky  drew  himself  up  erect,  and 
his  eagle  eye  ran  over  the  whole  assembly  with  a  bold, 
beaming  glance.  "  The  Russian  is  not  sold,"  cried  he, 
"  for  Berlin  will  pay  him  the  balance  of  a  million  and  a 
half.  Berlin  has  pledged  her  word,  and  she  will  re- 
deem it." 

The  countenances  of  those  around  grew  dark  again, 
and  here  and  there  were  heard  words  of  anger  and  wild 
resentment. 

"  How! "  cried  Itzig,  "  do  you  require  of  the  mer- 


280  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

chants  to  pay  what  they  can  keep  for  themselves?  The 
king  has  said,  '  You  shall  not  pay! ' : 

"  And  I  say,  we  will  pay,"  cried  Gotzkowsky.  "  What 
is  written  is  written,  and  what  is  promised  must  be  per- 
formed, for  this  our  honor  requires.  The  king  possesses 
not  the  power  of  annulling  a  promise  or  revoking  an 
oath!  He  who  does  not  fulfil  his  word  of  honor  is  not  a 
man  of  honor,  were  he  even  a  king." 

"  But,"  said  Herr  von  Kircheisen,  pathetically, 
"  there  are  nevertheless  circumstances  which  render  im- 
possible the  fulfilment  of  an  obligation." 

Gotzkowsky  answered  ardently:  "If  such  do  occur, 
the  man  of  honor  dies  when  he  cannot  fulfil  his  word. 
But  you — you  do  not  wish  to  die.  Oh  no!  You  wish 
to  break  your  word  in  order  to  live  pleasantly.  You 
wish  to  profit  by  your  breach  of  promise.  You  wish  to 
declare  yourselves  insolvent  and  cheat  your  creditors  of 
their  money,  and  thereby  amass  wealth." 

A  general  storm  of  indignation  interrupted  Gotz- 
kowsky, and  the  very  men  who  had  come  for  the  purpose 
of  making  a  formal  demonstration  of  their  gratitude 
now  approached  him  with  angry  gestures  and  threaten- 
ing words. 

"  A  million  and  a  half  is  no  child's  play,"  screamed 
Ephraim.  "  Money  is  more  precious  than  honor." 

"  I  say  money  is  honor,"  cried  Itzig.  "  As  long  as 
we  keep  our  millions,  we  keep  our  honor." 

"  You  are  very  generous,"  sneered  Kretschmer. 
"Like  a  gentleman,  you  pay  your  debts  out  of  other 
people's  pockets,  and  the  citizens  will  have  to  pay  mil- 
lions to  enable  you  to  keep  your  word." 

Gotzkowsky  cast  one  look  of  contemptuous  pity  on 
him,  and  replied:  "You  forget,  sir,  that  I  did  not  act 
in  my  own  name,  but  in  that  of  the  magistracy  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  281 

merchants  of  Berlin.  Not  I  alone  would  be  faithless  to 
my  word,  but  the  whole  town  of  Berlin." 

"  But  I  repeat/'  said  the  chief  burgomaster,  "  that 
the  king  has  released  us  from  the  obligation  of  keeping 
our  word." 

"  No  king  can  do  that,"  interrupted  Gotzkowsky. 
"  A  man  of  honor  must  keep  his  word,  and  no  one,  not 
even  a  king,  can  absolve  him  from  it." 

"  Let  us  not  quarrel  about  matters  of  opinion,"  said 
Kircheisen,  shrugging  his  shoulders.  "  My  opinion  is, 
that  we  do  not  pay  this  sum." 

"No,  we  will  not  pay  it!  "  cried  all  in  tumultuous 
excitement,  as  they  surrounded  the  burgomaster,  discuss- 
ing in  cheerful  conversation  the  advantages  of  non-pay- 
ment. 

Gotzkowsky  stood  listening  to  them  alone,  unob- 
served, and  forgotten.  His  heart  was  heavy  with  sad- 
ness, and  painfully  did  he  reflect:  "  This  is  the  unholy 
influence  of  money,  hardening  the  heart  and  silencing 
the  voice  of  honor.  For  a  few  millions  of  dollars  do 
they  sell  their  good  name.  One  final  attempt  let  me 
make.  I  will  see  what  their  cowardice  will  do." 

Again  did  he  enter  their  midst,  and  with  convin- 
cing words  and  ardent  eloquence  portray  the  danger 
which  would  ensue  from  the  non-payment  of  the  bonds. 

The  Eussian  was  not  very  far  from  Berlin:  if  he  had 
retired  in  forced  marches  he  could  return  thither  with 
equal  rapidity  in  order,  in  the  wantonness  of  his  wrath, 
to  take  vengeance  on  the  faithless  town. 

"In  an  unlucky  moment/'  said  he,  "the  Eussians 
might  gain  a  victory  over  our  king.  He  would  then 
return  and  rend  us  like  a  tiger.  I  would  then  no  longer 
have  the  power  of  protecting  you,  for  General  Tottle- 
ben's  anger  would  be  turned  principally  against  me, 


282  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

who  guaranteed  the  payment  of  the  contribution.  God 
himself  does  not  protect  him  who  breaks  his  word.  He 
is  an  outlaw." 

A  deep  silence  followed  Gotzkowsky's  speech.  All 
the  faces  were  again  overcast,  and  in  the  contracted  brow 
and  anxious  countenances  could  be  read  the  fact  that 
his  words  had  painfully  convinced  them  that  it  was  neces- 
sary to  pay. 

Even  Herr  von  Kircheisen  in  his  fear  of  the  return  of 
the  Kussians,  forgot  the  enormous  amount  of  the  sums 
to  be  paid,  and  said,  with  a  melancholy  sigh:  "  Gotz- 
kowsky  is,  I  am  afraid,  right.  It  is  very  hard  to  pay 
the  money,  but  it  is  very  dangerous  not  to  do  it." 

"  It  might  cost  us  our  heads,"  confirmed  the  first 
councilman. 

Ephraim  stood  with  his  head  cast  down,  and  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "  Money  is  very  dear,  but  life  is  still 
dearer." 

Itzig  cried  out  in  despair:  "  Let  us  keep  our  money. 
Without  money  the  Jew  is  nobody." 

But  the  chief  burgomaster,  who  had  consulted  the 
councilmen,  now  approached  Gotzkowsky,  and,  with  a 
smile,  offered  him  his  hand.  "  We  thank  you,"  said  he, 
"  for  you  have  spoken  wisely,  and  your  advice  shall  be 
followed.  We  will  pay,  for  we  cannot  help  ourselves. 
But  we  must  beg  you  to  do  us  another  important  service. 
Go  to  the  king  and  beg  him  not  to  be  angry  with  us  if 
we  do  not  obey  his  order." 

"  Yes,  do  so,  do  so,  Gotzkowsky!  "  cried  all  the  others. 
"  Go  to  the  king,  he  is  friendly  toward  you — beg  for  us." 

Gotzkowsky's  countenance  beamed  with  generous 
satisfaction.  "  Very  well,"  said  he;  "  I  will  go  to  the 
king  and  beg  him  to  allow  the  town  of  Berlin  to  preserve 
its  honor  immaculate,  and  pay  the  promised  sum." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  283 

"  Use  all  your  eloquence,  that  the  king  may  remain 
favorably  inclined  toward  us,  and  not  become  angry 
with  us  for  acting  this  once  against  his  orders/'  admon- 
ished the  chief  burgomaster. 

"  The  king  is  a  high-minded  and  noble  man,"  said 
Gotzkowsky,  enthusiastically.  "  He  looks  upon  a  man's 
word  as  sacred,  and  will  understand  us  and  honor  us  for 
not  wishing  to  break  ours." 

An  hour  later  the  chief  citizens  and  merchants  of 
Berlin  repaired  to  the  spacious  town-hall,  where  an  ele- 
gant banquet  had  been  prepared,  and  merriment  pre- 
vailed, and  glasses  sounded;  and  Berlin,  rescued,  cele- 
brated the  first  day  of  joy  and  happiness. 

But  John  Gotzkowsky,  to  whom  this  feast  was  given, 
whom  Berlin  called  her  deliverer  and  benefactor,  was 
not  present  at  this  banquet.  Deeply  buried  in  furs  he 
had  just  entered  his  carriage,  and  braving  danger  and 
toil,  in  the  cold  and  darkness  he  drove  away  toward 
Meissen,  where  the  king  had  established  his  head- 
quarters. 


BOOK  III. 
CHAPTEE   I. 

FREDERICK   THE    GREAT    AT    MEISSEN. 

THE  great  battle  of  Torgau  had  been  fought,  and  the 
Prussian  army,  after  so  many  combats  and  such  a  bloody 
victory,  was  contemplating  with  lively  satisfaction  the 
going  into  winter  quarters,  which,  it  hoped,  this  time 
would  be  in  Saxony.  The  Prussian  headquarters  were, 
for  the  time  being,  in  Meissen,  and  in  the  palace  there, 
for  a  short  resting-spell,  dwelt  the  king,  who  for  many 
years  had  only  experienced  the  troubles  and  dangers 
of  his  position;  the  king  who  had  often  struggled  with 
hunger  and  care,  daily  privation  and  mortal  danger, 
and  who  one  day,  wearied  out  by  sleeping  night  after 
night  on  the  cold  ground,  commissioned  his  adjutant  to 
provide  a  bundle  of  straw  for  the  comfort  of  his  royal 
person.  The  king  had  for  a  long  time  spared  Saxony. 
He  was  sorry  for  this  beautiful,  afflicted  land.  But 
Saxony  was  finally  to  be  treated  as  an  enemy's  country, 
as  she  would  not  appreciate  Frederick's  noble  forbear- 
ance and  clemency,  and  had  allied  herself  to  his  enemies 
with  fanatical  zeal.  And  now  her  devastated  fields, 
her  paralyzed  factories,  her  impoverished  towns  and  de- 
serted villages,  testified  to  her  distress  and  the  calamities 
of  war.  But  at  this  time  quiet  and  tranquillity  reigned 
in  the  hostile  camps.  On  both  sides  they  were  too  tired 
to  be  able  to  carry  on  a  fresh  conflict,  and  the  strength 
284 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  285 

of  both  parties  being  exhausted,  they  were  obliged  to 
allow  each  other  time  for  rest.  Besides,  the  winter  had 
set  in  early  with  unusual  severity,  and,  to  all  appear- 
ances, put  an  end  to  the  campaign  of  1760. 

The  only  contest  now  was  for  winter  quarters;  and  it 
had  been,  therefore,  after  the  victory  of  Torgau,  the 
king's  first  endeavor  to  cut  off  the  retreat  of  the  Aus- 
trians  to  Dresden,  or  at  least  to  drive  them  out  of  this 
town.  But,  as  the  king  wrote  to  Countess  Camas, 
"  They  laughed  at  us  from  the  top  of  the  hills — I  with- 
drew immediately,  and,  like  a  little  boy,  have  stuck 
myself  down  in  pure  disgust  in  one  of  the  accursed 
Saxon  villages.  I  assure  you  I  lead  a  perfect  dog's 
life,  such  as  no  one  else,  except  Don  Quixote,  has  ever 
led." 

In  the  mean  while  Frederick  had  left  this  "  accursed 
Saxon  village "  (Neustadt)  and  had  gone  to  Meissen, 
and  his  "  dog's  life  "  had  given  place  to  ease  and  com- 
fort. He  had,  therefore,  for  some  quiet  weeks  laid  aside 
the  sword,  and  the  gentleman  had  become  again  the 
royal  poet  and  savant,  who  divided  his  time  between 
music  and  poetry,  between  serious  studies  and  writ- 
ing to  his  friends,  to  whom  he  sent  letters,  in  which  his 
great  and  elevated  manner  of  thinking,  his  soul 
above  prejudice,  were  displayed  in  all  their  beauty  and 
power. 

The  king  was  alone  in  his  study.  He  had  just  fin- 
ished a  letter  to  the  Marquis  d'Argens,  calling  upon  him 
to  give  some  news  of  his  gallery  at  Sans-Souci,  and  to 
inform  him  of  its  progress.  The  king  laid  down  his  pen, 
and  leaned  back  in  his  chair  for  a  moment.  His  usually 
sharp,  bright  eye  had  now  a  soft,  gentle  expression,  and  a 
light  smile  played  around  his  thin,  nobly-formed  lips. 

He  has  forgotten  for  the  time  the  care  and  bustle  of 
19 


286  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

war,  and  fancied  himself  in  his  beloved  paradise,  his 
Sans-Souci,  where  it  was  allowed  the  hero  to  be  a  poet, 
and  where  he  could  for  some  genial  hours  put  aside  his 
dignity,  and,  instead  of  the  enthroned  ruler,  be  the 
cheerful  sage,  the  smiling  son  of  the  Muses. 

The  king,  pleased  by  these  memories  of  happy  days, 
rose  and  seized  his  flute,  which,  by  his  express  orders, 
always  lay  on  his  writing-table.  He  put  it  to  his  lips, 
and  began  an  adagio,  in  the  execution  of  which  he  was 
acknowledged  to  be  one  of  the  first  virtuosos  of  his  day, 
and  the  sounds,  as  they  poured  forth,  rose  plaintively, 
and  floated  around  him  in  bewitching  melody.  No  one 
could  listen  to  this  beautifully-executed,  deeply-felt 
music  of  the  royal  performer,  without  being  impressed 
in  his  inmost  soul,  and  feeling  his  heart  swell  with 
powerful  emotions.  Outside,  in  the  antechamber,  were 
standing  the  stern  generals,  the  heroic  warriors,  Zeithen, 
and  the  brave  Schwerin,  and  General  von  Saldern,  and 
their  scarred,  austere  features  assumed  a  soft,  touching 
expression,  as  they  leaned  against  the  wall  and  listened 
in  breathless  silence  to  the  performance  of  the  king. 
But  suddenly  the  playing  ceased. 

To  these  brave  warriors,  unaccustomed  to  music,  the 
execution  had  seemed  superb;  but  the  king  was  not 
satisfied  with  it.  He,  who  had  in  his  memory  the  royal 
artiste  of  Sans-Souci,  exacted  of  the  king,  driven  about 
by  the  hardships  and  necessities  of  war,  that  he  should 
have  lost  nothing  of  the  fulness  of  tone  or  the  power 
and  energy  of  execution.  It  worried  him  that  the  notes 
no  longer  flowed  so  clearly;  it  vexed  him  to  hear  a 
sharp,  whistling  sound,  that  seemed  to  accompany  the 
melody  as  with  a  painful  sigh.  He  threw  the  flute  aside, 
and  stepped  to  a  looking-glass,  which  he  took  up  with 
evident  unwillingness. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  287 

It  was  very  seldom  that  the  king  held  it  worth  his 
while  to  consult  the  mirror  about  his  personal  appear- 
ance, and  when  he  did  so,  it  was  usually  to  inquire  for 
some  failing  or  evidence  of  frailty  which  restricted 
him  in  the  freedom  of  his  being.  And  while  he  thus 
looked  at  himself,  his  features  assumed  a  sad  expression, 
and  his  eyebrows  became  contracted. 

What  was  it,  which  thus  put  out  of  humor  the  brave 
hero,  the  victory-crowned  king? 

He  became  aware  that  his  second  front  tooth  had 
broken  off.  The  gap  thus  caused  was  the  natural  ex- 
planation of  the  want  of  clearness  in  his  playing.  He 
threw  the  mirror  angrily  aside,  and  with  a  frown  on 
his  brow  paced  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room  two  or 
three  times. 

But  gradually  another  expression  succeeded,  and  a 
sarcastic  smile  played  around  his  mouth.  Again  he 
stepped  to  the  writing-table,  on  which  lay  several  unfin- 
ished letters.  Looking  for  the  one  he  had  commenced 
to  the  Countess  Camas,  he  said  to  himself:  "  The  good 
countess  inquires  after  my  personal  appearance.  Well, 
now  that  I  am  in  the  humor,  I  will  draw  my  protrait 
for  her." 

Again  he  took  up  the  hand-glass  and  regarded  him- 
self long  and  attentively;  but  this  time  not  with  vexation 
or  ill-humor,  but  with  the  cheerful  smile  and  dignified 
calm  of  a  philosopher.  He  then  applied  himself  to  his 
writing:  "  You  ask  how  I  look,  dear  mother.  The  dis- 
order of  war  has  made  me  so  old,  that  you  would  hardly 
recognize  me.  My  hair  is  quite  gray  on  the  right  side 
of  my  head;  my  teeth  break  off  and  fall  out;  my  face  is 
as  full  of  wrinkles  as  the  furbelow  of  a  woman's  frock; 
my  back  as  bent  as  that  of  a  monk  of  La  Trappe.  Only 
my  heart  is  unchanged;  and,  as  long  as  I  have  breath, 


288  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

will  preserve  feelings  of  esteem  and  the  most  tender 
friendship  toward  you,  good  mamma."  * 

As  the  king  read  over  this  description  of  his  appear- 
ance once  more,  he  broke  into  a  loud,  merry  laugh.  He 
then  pushed  the  letter  aside,  and  took  up  another  piece 
of  paper,  and  a  drawing-pencil. 

Silence  prevailed  now  in  the  cabinet  of  the  king. 
Outside  was  heard  the  monotonous  tread  of  the  sentinel, 
sometimes  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  the  neighing  of  a 
horse,  or  the  order  of  some  officer.  The  king  paid  no  at- 
tention to  all  this.  His  ear  was  so  accustomed  to  these 
noises,  that  it  seemed  like  perfect  silence  to  him.  He 
was  so  buried  in  his  work,  that  even  the  unwonted  tu- 
mult which  now  arose  was  unperceived  by  him;  nor  did 
he  notice  that  a  carriage  drove  into  the  palace-yard,  its 
post-horn  sounding  loud  and  merrily.  The  generals 
and  courtiers,  who  were  in  the  antechamber,  noticed  it 
all  the  more,  because  any  thing  was  welcome  to  them 
which  broke  in  upon  the  prevailing  quiet;  for  so  ac- 
customed were  they  to  the  varied  business  of  war,  that 
any  thing  which  departed  from  it  was  insupportably 
tedious.  They  drew  to  the  window  and  looked  with 
pleasure  on  the  dusty,  dirty  travelling  carriage,  which, 
with  its  four  panting  post-horses,  had  drawn  up  at  the 
entrance  to  the  palace,  and  out  of  which  descended  a 
tall,  manly  figure,  who  went  in  at  the  palace  door. 

The  gentlemen  in  the  antechamber  amused  them- 
selves guessing  who  the  stranger  who  had  just  arrived 
could  be;  and  they  had  all  arrived  at  the  unanimous 
conclusion  that  it  must  be  the  Marquis  d'Argens,  as  the 
door  opened,  and  the  stranger  entered.  He  asked  for  the 
adjutant  on  duty,  and,  as  the  latter  was  pointed  out  to 

*  "  Lettres  inSdites,  ou  Correspondance  de  Frederic  II.,"  &c., 
p.  120. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  289 

him,  he  stepped  toward  him  with  an  air  of  quiet 
dignity. 

"  I  pray  you  announce  me  immediately  to  his  maj- 
esty. Have  the  kindness  to  say  to  him,  that  I  have  not 
come  hither  on  my  private  affairs,  but  as  a  delegate 
from  the  city  of  Berlin,  with  full  powers  from  the  Coun- 
cil and  citizens,  to  request  the  honor  of  an  audience 
with  the  king,  and  that  I  am  obliged  to  return  as  speedily 
as  possible  to  the  capital." 

"  Your  name,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  merchant,  John  Gotzkowsky." 

The  serious  and  proud  features  of  the  aristocratic 
adjutant  immediately  relaxed,  and  assumed  a  more  polite 
and  obliging  expression. 

"  Ah!  Gotzkowsky,  the  rich  and  magnanimous  mer- 
chant of  Berlin — the  special  protege  of  the  king.  I  will 
announce  you  immediately  to  his  majesty."  And  the 
adjutant  hurried  through  the  halls  and  entered  the 
boudoir  of  the  king. 

In  the  mean  while,  the  generals  drew  near  Gotzkow- 
sky, who  related  to  them  all  about  the  siege  of  Berlin, 
and  the  cruel  and  relentless  conduct  of  the  enemy;  press- 
ing him  with  questions,  whether  on  his  journey  thither 
he  had  encountered  or  come  into  the  vicinity  of  any  por- 
tion of  the  enemy. 

"  You  will  find  the  king  very  much  out  of  humor," 
said  General  von  Saldern;  "  he  has  not  left  his  study  to- 
day, and  doubtless  he  is  occupied  with  very  serious  plans." 

"  Perhaps  even  with  the  plan  of  a  battle,"  said  an- 
other of  the  gentlemen,  "for  it  is  said  that  Lacy  has 
advanced  his  army,  and  even  that  Landon  has  left  Dres- 
den. A  battle  is  therefore  imminent,  and  the  king  is 
evidently  drawing  up  his  plan." 

At  this  moment  the  door  of  the  study  was  opened, 


290  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

and  the  adjutant  motioned  to  Gotzkowsky  to  enter.  As 
the  latter  was  traversing  the  hall,  the  generals  cast  an 
eager  glance  through  the  open  door,  anxious  to  see  the 
countenance  of  the  king,  and  find  out  from  its  expression 
whether  this  intolerable  armistice  was  to  be  interrupted 
by  the  violent  clash  of  arms. 

In  the  mean  time,  Gotzkowsky  entered  the  chamber 
of  the  king,  and  the  door  closed  after  him.  He  was 
now  alone  in  the  presence  of  the  monarch,  who  was  still 
sitting  at  his  writing-table,  making  rapid  strokes  with 
his  drawing-pencil  on  the  paper  before  him. 

"  He  is  writing,"  said  Gotzkowsky  to  himself,  "  and  is 
perhaps  in  the  act  of  drawing  out  the  plan  of  the  battle 
which  the  generals  out  there  are  awaiting  with  such  joy- 
ous impatience.  Yes,  he  is  writing,  and  perhaps  each 
stroke  of  the  pen  may  cost  the  lives  of  hundreds  of  hu- 
man beings."  And  he  did  not  venture  by  a  single  word 
or  a  loud  breath  to  draw  attention  to  his  presence.  On 
his  entrance,  the  king  had  cast  on  him  one  of  his  sharp, 
penetrating  glances,  before  whose  commanding  power 
many  a  general  and  many  a  brave  man  had  quailed,  and 
had  then  bent  his  head  again  over  the  paper. 

Absolute  silence  prevailed  for  a  while.  Suddenly 
the  king  interrupted  it,  and  motioned  to  Gotzkowsky 
with  his  hand  to  draw  near.  "  Just  look  and  see  whether 
that  pleases  you,"  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone.  "  You  are 
known  as  a  connoisseur  in  art,  and  you  have  proved  to 
me  that  you  understand  painting.  Look  at  that,  and 
tell  me  whether  you  like  it." 

What  was  it  that  the  king  had  drawn  on  the  paper? 
Was  it  really,  as  his  brave  generals  wished,  the  plan  of  a 
battle  soon  to  be  fought,  was  it  a  philosophical  treatise, 
or  one  of  those  witty  and  piquant  epistles  to  which  the 
king  treated  his  friends?  None  of  all  these. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  291 

"  A  nosegay !  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  as  with  uncon- 
cealed astonishment  he  looked  now  on  the  paper,  now  on 
the  king.  "  Your  majesty  is  drawing  a  bouquet  of 
flowers,  and  out  there  the  gentlemen  have  just  told  me 
in  confidence  that  you  were  busied  with  a  plan  of  battle, 
and  that  the  Austrians  were  approaching." 

"  Nonsense!  "  said  the  king,  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  that  rough  set  out  there  are  always  anxious  for  war, 
and  to  be  cutting  and  slashing  at  each  other.  Don't 
you  listen  to  them,  but  rather  tell  me  how  you  like  this 
drawing.  Don't  you  think  these  roses  mixed  with  lilies 
look  well?  But  I  see  you  wish  to  know  what  it  is  in- 
tended for.  Well,  it  is  for  a  set  of  porcelain  which  I  wish 
to  have  painted  for  the  Marquis  d'Argens."  And,  as  he 
met  Gotzkowsky's  looks,  he  continued  with  a  friendly 
smile:  "  Yes,  you  see,  you  are  rich;  you  can  make  others 
presents.  But  the  king  of  Prussia  is  a  poor  man;  he 
has  only  his  coat,  his  sword,  and  his  porcelain.  And 
this  last  even,"  continued  he,  with  a  slight  frown,  "  I  am 
obliged  to  get  from  Meissen." 

"  That  your  majesty  need  not  do  in  future.  Please 
God,  your  majesty  shall  make  your  porcelain  in  your 
own  dominions! " 

"  Will  you  guarantee  that?  Will  you  undertake  it?  " 
asked  the  king,  kindly. 

"I  will." 

"  And  look  ye,  you  are  just  the  man  to  carry  out  what 
you  wish.  I  am  well  satisfied  with  you.  You  have 
justified  the  confidence  I  placed  in  you  when  I  was 
crown  prince.  You  have  redeemed  the  vow  you  made 
me  then." 

"  I  swore  to  your  majesty  that  I  would  be  faithful  to 
the  fatherland  with  life  and  property,"  cried  Gotzkow- 
sky,  with  noble  ardor. 


292  THE   MERCHANT   OP   BERLIN. 

,  "  And  you  have  kept  your  word.  It  is  not  difficult 
in  easy  and  prosperous  times  to  find  people  to  serve  the 
state.  Those  are  good  citizens  who  serve  her  when  she 
is  in  difficulty  and  danger.*  You  are  a  good  citizen." 
And  handing  Gotzkowsky  an  open  letter  which  lay 
on  the  writing-table,  he  said:  "  Read,  it  is  a  letter  from 
the  Marquis  d'Argens.  Read  it  aloud,  I  would  like  to 
hear  it  again." 

And  Gotzkowsky  read  with  a  trembling  voice,  and 
cheeks  reddened  with  noble  modesty,  the  following  pas- 
sage from  a  letter  of  the  marquis,  which  the  king  pointed 
out  to  him  with  his  finger:  "  Gotzkowsky  is,  indeed,  an 
excellent  man  and  a  worthy  citizen.  I  wish  you  had 
many  such  as  he.  The  greatest  gift  which  fortune  can 
make  a  state  is  a  citizen  full  of  zeal  for  the  welfare  of 
his  country  and  his  prince.  And  in  this  respect  I  must 
say,  to  the  credit  of  Berlin,  that  in  these  trying  times 
I  have  met  many  of  her  citizens,  Gotzkowsky  the  fore- 
most among  them,  whose  virtues,  the  old  historians  of 
Rome,  had  they  lived  at  the  present  day,  would  have  im- 
mortalized! "  f 

"  Are  you  satisfied?  "  asked  the  king,  as  Gotzkowsky, 
having  finished,  handed  him  the  paper.  "  Oh,  I  see  you 
are  a  modest  man,  and  blush  like  a  young  girl.  But  tell 
me,  now,  what  brings  you  here?  What  does  the  city  of 
Berlin  wish?  " 

"  Her  rights,  your  majesty,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  seri- 
ously. 

"And  who  is  troubling  her  rights?" 

"  Your  majesty." 

The  king  frowned,  and  cast  an  angry  glance  on  the 
bold  jester. 

*  The  king's  own  words. 

f  "  Correspondance  entre  Fred,  et  M.  d'Argens,"  vi.,  p.  228. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  293 

Gotzkowsky  continued,  calmly:  "  Your  majesty  is 
depriving  us  ol'  our  good  rights,  in  so  far  as  you  wish  in 
prevent  us  from  being  honest  people,  and  keeping  our 
word  sacred." 

"  Oh,  now  1  understand  you,"  said  the  king,  laugh- 
ing. "  You  are  speaking  of  the  Russian  war-tax.  Ber- 
lin shall  not  pay  it." 

"  Berlin  will  pay  it,  in  order  that  your  majesty  may 
retain  her  in  your  gracious  favor;  in  order  that  the 
great  Frederick  may  not  have  to  blush  for  his  faithless 
and  dishonest  town,  which  would  not  then  deserve  to 
he  the  residence  of  a  king.  How!  would  your  maj- 
esty trust  the  men  who  refused  to  redeem  their  open- 
ly-pledged word?  who  look  upon  sworn  contracts  as  a 
mouse-trap,  to  be  escaped  from  as  soon  as  the  opportu- 
nity offers,  and  when  the  dangerous  cat  is  no  longer  sit- 
ting at  the  door?  Berlin  will  pay — that  our  sons  may 
not  have  to  blush  for  their  fathers;  that  posterity  may 
not  say  that  Berlin  had  stamped  herself  with  the  brand 
of  dishonor.  We  have  pledged  our  word,  and  we  must 
keep  it." 

"  You  must  not,  for  I  do  not  wish  you  to  do  so,"  cried 
Frederick,  with  anger-flashing  eyes.  "  I  will  institute 
reprisals.  The  imperial  court  has  refused  the  payment 
of  the  Bamberg  and  Wurzburg  bonds." 

"And  your  majesty  considers  that  proceeding  highly 
dishonest  and  unjust,"  interrupted  Gotzkowsky;  "and 
while  you  wish  to  punish  the  empire  for  its  breach  of 
faith,  you  punish  doubly  the  town  of  Berlin  by  depriv- 
ing her  of  the  last  thing  that  remained  to  her  in  her  day 
of  need  and  misfortune — her  honorable  name.  You 
cannot  be  in  earnest,  sire?  Punish,  if  you  choose,  the 
imperial  judge,  but  do  not  make  Berlin  the  dishonored 
Jack  Ketch  to  carry  out  your  sentence." 


294  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  But  are  you  so  anxious  to  get  rid  of  your  money? 
What  is  the  amount  that  you  still  owe?  " 

"  A  million  and  a  half,  sire." 

The  king  stepped  back  and  looked  at  Gotzkowsky 
with  astonishment.  "  And  the  people  of  Berlin  insist 
upon  paying  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,  because  their  word  is  pledged." 

The  king  shook  his  head  thoughtfully.  "  Hark  ye," 
said  he,  "you  seem  to  me  to  be  a  dangerous  agitator, 
who  wishes  to  turn  my  peaceful  citizens  of  Berlin  into 
true  children  of  Haman.  Some  weeks  ago,  after  the 
unfortunate  fight  of  Kunnersdorf,  when  I  sent  an  ex- 
press courier  to  Berlin  and  ordered  the  Town  Council 
to  advise  the  rich  and  well-to-do  to  retire  from  the  city 
with  their  portable  property,  my  recommendation  was 
not  followed:  you  yourself  excited  the  Council  to  dis- 
obedience. In  your  self-willed  obstinacy  you  had  the 
impudent  assurance  to  make  your  way  through  a  coun- 
try infested  by  the  enemy;  and  if  my  colonel,  Von  Pritt- 
witz,  had  not  found  you  in  those  woods,  and  brought 
you  to  me  in  the  village,  your  obstinate  head  would  have 
adorned  the  lance  of  some  Cossack  or  other.  And  what 
did  you  come  for  but  to  assure  me  that  the  well-to-do 
citizens  of  Berlin  would  prefer  staying  at  home,  and  did 
not  wish  to  run  away  ?  Yes,  truly  you  are  a  queer  diplo- 
matist, and  rush  headlong  into  danger  and  trouble  only 
to  assure  your  king  that  his  citizens  will  not  obey  him!  " 

The  king  had  spoken  with  apparent  displeasure,  but 
around  his  lips  there  played  a  slight  smile,  and  his  large 
blue  eyes  were  directed  toward  Gotzkowsky  with  an  ex- 
pression of  indescribable  kindness. 

"  In  this  case  they  do  not  wish  to  obey  your  majesty, 
because  they  wish  to  remain  worthy  of  the  name  of 
your  majesty's  citizens  and  subjects." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  295 

The  king  paced  up  and  down  several  times,  with 
folded  arms,  and  then  stopped  before  Gotzkowsky,  look- 
ing steadily  in  his  eyes.  "  Now  tell  me,  how  did  you 
manage  to  make  the  Berliners  so  obstinate  and  so  lavish 
of  their  means  ?  " 

Gotzkowsky  smiled.  "  Please  your  majesty,  the  Ber- 
liners prize  their  honor  above  their  life." 

The  king  shook  his  head  impatiently.  "  You  may 
tell  that  to  some  one  else.  Tell  me,  how  did  you  bring 
my  Berliners  up  to  that?  But  the  truth — mind,  you 
tell  me  the  truth." 

"  Well,  then,  your  majesty  shall  know  the  truth,"' 
said  Gotzkowsky,  after  a  pause. 

"  Yes,  yes,  the  truth,"  cried  the  king,  nodding  his 
head  violently.  "  I  wish  to  know  how  you  inspired  the 
citizens  of  Berlin  with  such  bold  assurance." 

"  The  truth  is,  sire,  that  this  was  only  the  courage  of 
cowardice,  and  that  the  prudent  magistracy  and  mer- 
chants were  perfectly  delighted  with  your  majesty's 
orders  not  to  pay  these  bonds,  and  that  I  gave  my- 
self an  immense  amount  of  trouble  in  vain  to  remind 
them  of  their  pledged  word  and  their  compromised 
honor." 

"Oh!  I  know  it,"  said  the  king.  "  My  good  Ber- 
liners love  money  as  well  as  any  other  of  the  good-for- 
nothing  children  of  men.  Proceed!  " 

"  Well,  when  I  found  them  deaf  to  the  voice  of  honor, 
I  let  them  hear  the  words  of  cowardly  prudence.  I 
painted  to  them  the  horrors  awaiting  them  if  the  enemy 
perchance  should  return  as  conquerors,  and  what  a  fear- 
ful revenge  they  would  take  on  the  perjured  city.  I  re- 
minded them  that  the  enemy  would  immediately  attack 
all  our  property  in  Courland,  Dantzic,  and  Livonia,  and 
that  at  the  Kussian  headquarters  they  had  threatened 


296  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

me  that  they  would  publish  us  in  all  the  open  com- 
mercial marts  as  issuers  of  false  bonds." 

"  You  were  then  in  the  Russian  camp  ?  " 

"  A  fortnight  ago,,  sire.  The  Council  of  Berlin  re- 
quested me  to  undertake  this  journey  to  complete  the 
transactions  left  unfinished  by  the  rapid  retreat  of  Gen- 
eral von  Tottleben." 

"  And  did  you  finish  them  ?  " 

"  I  was  obliged  to  give  General  Tottleben  a  written 
agreement  that  I  would  return  in  four  weeks  to  the  Rus- 
sian  camp  to  carry  out  the  transactions  in  the  name  of 
these  merchants." 

"  I  have  been  told  that  the  Russian  general  would 
not  accept  the  bonds  for  the  war-tax  unless  you  indorsed 
them.  Is  that  true,  too?" 

"  It  is  true." 

"  And  what  did  you  do?  " 

"  I  indorsed  them." 

The  king's  eye  lighted  up  with  friendship  and  kind- 
ness. "  D'Argens  is  right,"  said  he.  "  Cornelius  Ne- 
pos  and  Livy  would  have  mentioned  you  in  their  writ- 
ings." And  he  paced  up  and  down  the  room  in  deep 
thought. 

A  long  pause  ensued.  Finally,  Gotzkowsky  was  bold 
enough  to  break  it.  "  And  the  tax,  your  majesty,  may 
we  pay  it?  " 

The  king  stopped  in  front  of  him.  "  The  tax  shall 
be  paid,"  said  he  curtly;  but,  as  Gotzkowsky  was  about 
to  break  out  in-  loud  expressions  of  gratitude,  the  king 
waved  him  off  with  his  hand.  "  That  is,"  said  he,  "  I 
myself  will  pay  it,  if  it  cannot  be  otherwise.  Go  back 
into  the  Russian  camp,  as  you  have  promised.  Endeavor 
to  get  some  abatement  of  the  amount,  or  some  other 
profitable  terms;  but  if  you  do  not  succeed,  well,  I  will 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  297 

have  to  pay  this  million  and  a  half  for  Berlin.  But  in 
return  you  must  grant  me  a  favor." 

"  What,  sire?  Whatever  it  may  be,"  cried  (Jotzkow- 
sky,  ardently,  "  1  am  ready  to  perform  any  service  for 
your  majesty,  even  to  the  sacrifice  of  my  life." 

The  king  smiled.  "Oh,  no!  not  quite  so  bad  as 
that,  although  the  service  I  ask  of  you  is  more  difficult 
to  most  men  than  dying — I  mean  keeping  silence."  And 
as  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  Gotzkowsky's  shoul- 
der, he  continued:  "  Betray  to  no  one  what  I  have  said 
to  you,  and  only  at  the  very  last  moment,  if  it  is  absolute- 
ly necessary,  take  the  Council  into  your  confidence." 

"How,  sire?"  said  Gotzkowsky,  painfully.  "You 
wish  to  deprive  your  Berlin  citizens  of  the  gratification 
of  expressing  to  you  their  gratitude,  their  infinite  affec- 
tion. Berlin  may  not  even  know  how  kind,  how  gra- 
cious your  majesty  has  been  to  her!  " 

"  I  don't  like  the  jingling  of  words,  nor  the  throwing 
of  wreaths.  The  very  people  who  throw  laurel-wreaths 
would  be  only  too  glad  if  the  laurels  were  hard  enough 
to  break  our  heads.  You  pay  the  contribution,  that  is  to 
say,  you  advance  it,  and  I'll  return  it  to  you.*  That's 
all,  and  now  don't  say  another  word  about  it."  At  the 
same  time,  as  if  fearful  that  Gotzkowsky  might  yet  ven- 
ture to  act  contrary  to  his  wishes,  he  continued  more 
rapidly:  "  Now  tell  me  a  little  about  Berlin,  and  above 
all  things  about  our  gallery  at  Sans-Souci.  How  does 
it  fare?" 

"  It  is  finished,  sire,  and  the  people  flock  to  see  it." 

"  I  only,  like  a  fugitive  or  a  Don  Quixote,  am  driven 
about,"  said  the  king  to  himself,  "  and  cannot  even  enter 

*  "  Life  of  a  Patriotic  Merchant,"  pp.  85-254.  "  The  king  paid 
the  contribution  in  fact  so  quietly,  one  hardly  knew  when,  where 
or  how." — Preuat's  History  of  Frederick. 


298  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

my  own  house,  and  they  call  that  royal  happiness! " 
Turning  to  Gotzkowsky,  he  remarked  aloud:  "  Have  you 
seen  the  gallery  since  the  enemy  took  up  his  quarters 
in  it?" 

"  Yes,  sire!  Prince  Esterhazy  was  this  noble  enemy. 
He  protected  Sans-Souci  like  something  sacred.  When 
he  left  he  only  took  one  single  small  picture  with  him, 
as  a  souvenir/' 

The  king  gave  a  friendly  nod.  "  I  know  it/'  said  he, 
"  and  that  is  the  only  pleasure  I  have  had  for  a  long 
time.  Once  more  I  will  see  my  Titians  and  Correggios, 
my  Rubenses  and  Vandycks,  which  you  bought  for  me. 
Now  tell  me  about  Charlottenburg.  But  mind,  give  me 
the  truth.  I  have  noticed  that  no  one  will  speak  out 
about  it,  nobody  will  tell  the  truth.  They  are  afraid  of 
my  anger.  But  you  are  a  brave  man,  you  are  not  even 
afraid  of  the  Cossacks.  You  will  have  the  courage  to 
let  your  king  know  the  facts.  How  is  it  with  Charlot- 
tenburg? The  Saxons  have  quartered  there — what  did 
they  do?" 

And  now  Gotzkowsky,  often  interrupted  by  the  vio- 
lent and  angry  exclamations  of  the  king,  told  of  the 
barbarous  and  cruel  vandalism  committed  by  the  Saxons 
at  Charlottenburg,  their  unbridled  destructiveness  and 
unsparing  barbarity. 

"  And  the  Polignac  collection? "  asked  the  king, 
breathlessly. 

"  Almost  entirely  destroyed." 

The  king  started  up  from  his  easy-chair,  his  eyes 
flashing  with  rage.  He  was  no  longer  the  philosopher 
of  Sans-Souci,  no  longer  the  poet;  he  was  now  the  war- 
rior panting  for  battle  and  bloody  vengeance.  "  Tell 
me,  tell  me!  I  wish  to  know  all,"  said  the  king,  laboring 
out  each  word,  and  taking  long  strides  up  and  down. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  £99 

But  as  Gotzkowsky  gave  him  a  more  detailed  ac- 
count, and  related  the  sacrilegious  barbarity  which  did 
not  spare  even  the  sacred  art-treasures,  the  king's  brow 
became  more  darkened,  and  for  a  moment  a  burning 
flush  of  anger  shot  across  his  pale  cheek.  At  one  time 
he  raised  his  arm  threateningly,  as  if  he  would  bring 
down  the  thunderbolts  of  heaven  upon  such  wickedness 
and  ruthlessness. 

As  Gotzkowsky  finished,  the  king  said,  curtly  and 
vehemently,  "  Good,  very  good! "  and  traversing  the 
room  with  hasty  steps,  he  threw  open  the  door  which  led 
into  the  antechamber,  and  called  out,  "  Saldern!  " 

Immediately  General  von  Saldern  appeared  at  the 
open  door.  The  king  commanded  him  to  enter  and  shut 
the  door;  then,  addressing  him  in  a  short,  decisive  tone: 
"  Go  to-morrow,  quietly,  with  a  detachment  of  infantry 
and  cavalry,  to  Hubertsburg,  take  possession  of  the 
castle,  and  have  all  the  valuable  furniture  carefully  in- 
ventoried and  packed  up.  I  will  have  none  of  it.  The 
money  obtained  from  its  ransom  will  be  turned  over  to 
the  Lazaretto,  and  I  will  not  forget  you." 

There  was  a  pause.  General  von  Saldern  remained 
at  the  door  motionless,  in  stiff  military  attitude. 

The  king  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "  Well! 
did  you  hear?  " 

"Yes,  your  majesty,  I  heard.  But,  may  it  please 
your  majesty,  this  is  against  my  honor  and  my  oath." 

The  king  compelled  himself  to  be  composed,  for  he 
loved  General  Saldern  as  a  brave  and  noble  officer.  You 
would  be  right,"  said  he,  "  if  I  did  not  use  this  desperate 
means  to  a  good  object.  But  let  me  tell  you,  the  head 
of  the  great  lord  does  not  feel  it  if  you  tear  out  the  hair 
of  his  subjects.  You  must  hit,  then,  where  it  hurts  him; 
and  that  I  intend  to  do.  The  Elector  of  Saxony  shall 


300  THE  MEKCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

find  out  how  it  feels  when  one's  most  cherished  posses- 
sion is  destroyed.  We  will  teach  him  to  be  humane, 
and  behave  himself.  Go,  therefore,  to  Hubertsburg, 
and  do  as  I  told  you." 

General  von  Saldern  turned  pale,  and  his  counte- 
nance was  expressive  of  deep  suffering,  as  he  answered 
gravely  and  firmly:  "Your  majesty  may  send  me  right 
oft'  to  attack  the  enemy  and  his  batteries,  and  I  will  obey 
with  my  whole  heart;  but  against  my  honor,  my  oath, 
and  my  duty,  I  cannot,  dare  not  act." 

The  king  stamped  with  his  foot,  and  his  eye  flashed 
with  threatening  anger. 

"  You  must  obey,  as  is  your  duty;  you  are  bound 
to  obey  no  other  voice  than  that  of  your  king  who  com- 
mands you,"  said  he  with  a  voice  of  thunder. 

General  Saldern  answered,  calmly:  "  But,  sire,  I 
must  obey  the  voice  of  my  honor!  Your  majesty  can 
easily  transfer  this  commission  to  another." 

The  king  turned  from  him  with  an  involuntary 
frown,  and,  walking  up  and  down  hastily,  he  stopped 
near  Saldern,  and  laid  his  hand  gently  on  his  shoulder. 
"  Look  ye,  Saldern,  obey — go  to  Hubertsburg." 

"I  cannot,  sire! " 

"You  do  not  desire  to  enrich  yourself?"  said  the 
king,  as  he  turned  away.  "  Do  you  wish  your  discharge? 
I  have  no  use  for  soldiers  who  do  not  consider  obedience 
their  first  duty." 

"I  herewith  ask  for  my  discharge,  sire!  " 

"  You  have  it— go!  "  * 

Without  saying  a  word,  General  von  Saldern  made  a 
military  obeisance,  and  left  the  room. 

*  This  interview  is  historical  and  literal.  General  von  Saldern 
left  the  array,  but  after  the  peace  entered  it  ^^e:ain,  with  hi^fi  honor 
and  distinction. — KUSTRB,  "Traits  of  Saldern,"  p.  39. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  3Q1 

"  You  go  too!  "  said  the  king  to  Gotzkowsky,  who 
had  been  a  silent,  involuntary  spectator  of  this  scene — 
"  go  and  tell  my  adjutant  to  send  Quintus  Icilius  to  me." 

In  a  few  minutes  Major  Quintus  Icilius  entered. 
"  Go  to  Hubertsburg  with  a  detachment  of  infantry  and 
cavalry,  and  clear  out  the  castle." 

Major  Quintus  Icilius  took  good  heed  not  to  con- 
tradict the  king.  He  had  already,  in  the  antechamber, 
heard  of  General  von  Saldern's  fate,  and  he  was  not  in- 
disposed to  execute  the  king's  commission. 

"  Only  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  you  hand  over  to 
the  Lazaretto,  the  rest  you  can  keep  for  yourself." 

"  As  you  command,  sire!     Shall  I  proceed  at  once?  " 

The  king  cast  a  look  of  disgust  on  him.  "  Are  you 
in  such  a  hurry  to  be  rich  ?  "  said  he.  "  Go — I  will 
appoint  the  time  and  the  hour  more  particularly."  * 

When  the  king  was  alone  again,  he  paced  up  and 
down  the  room  in  deep  thought.  At  one  time  he  stopped 
at  the  window,  and  his  bright  blue  eyes  were  turned 
mournfully  toward  heaven.  "  Poor  fools  that  we  are!  " 
said  he,  with  a  sigh.  "  We  have  only  a  moment  to  live, 
and  we  make  this  moment  as  bitter  as  possible  to  each 
other.  We  take  pleasure  in  destroying  the  master-pieces 
of  industry  and  art,  at  the  same  time  we  are  erecting  an 
accursed  monument  to  our  own  devastation  and  our 
cruelty."  f 

*  Not  till  May,  1761,  was  the  king's  order  carried  into  execu- 
tion by  Major  Q.  Icilius,  in  a  most  barbarous  manner.  The  king 
was  apparently  satisfied ;  but  when  Q.  Icilius  in  1764  applied  for 
repayment  of  moneys  spent  in  executing  the  royal  command,  the 
king  indorsed  on  the  application — "  My  officers  steal  like  crowa 
They  get  nothing." 

f  His  own  words. 


20 


302  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTER   II. 

THE    WINTER-QUARTEBS    IN    LEIPSIC. 

THE  king  of  Prussia  had  left  Meissen,  and  taken  up 
his  winter-quarters  in  Leipsic.  The  choice  of  this  town 
arose  from  a  particular  need  of  the  king.  He  wished  to 
pass  the  winter  in  a  university  town,  and,  instead  of  the 
rough  companions  of  war,  to  surround  himself  with 
learned  men  and  artists,  poets  and  musicians.  He  had 
his  band  brought  from  Berlin,  and  invited  the  professors 
of  the  Leipsic  University  to  his  table.  Thus  Leipsic, 
the  rich  and  luxurious  commercial  town,  found  itself, 
for  a  few  months,  converted  into  a  royal  residence.  But 
not  willingly  did  she  undergo  this  transformation;  and 
it  was  against  her  wish  that  she  received  the  Prussian 
king,  in  lieu  of  the  troops  of  the  allies,  within  her  walls. 
Frederick  knew  this,  and  therefore  exercised  no  mercy 
on  this  city,  so  rich  in  money  and  professions,  whose  un- 
welcome guest  he  was. 

Had  Leipsic  welcomed  the  Prussian  army  in  a  ready 
and  friendly  manner,  she  would  certainly  have  met  with 
indulgence;  but  her  defiant  and  sullen  behavior,  her 
warm  partisanship  of  Austria,  whose  ally  Saxony  was, 
naturally  only  tended  to  increase  the  animosity  of  the 
king,  and  aggravate  his  ill-humor.  If  Leipsic  insisted 
upon  regarding  the  Prussians  as  enemies,  his  duty  was 
to  consider  her  as  an  enemy,  and  treat  her  as  such. 

Enormous  contributions  were  laid  upon  the  town, 
and  in  spite  of  the  previous  written  promise  of  the  king 
that  her  assessment  should  not,  at  the  utmost,  exceed  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  new  demands  were  now  con- 
stantly being  made,  and  new  contributions  levied.  In 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  303 

vain  did  the  Council  beg  and  plead  for  mercy  and  jus- 
tice; in  vain  did  the  merchants  protest  that  their  means 
were  exhausted,  and  that  they  were  not  able  to  meet  any 
further  payments.  The  enormous  demands  determined 
on  were  firmly  and  with  iron  obstinacy  insisted  upon; 
and  as  the  refractory  town  did  not  cease  to  oppose  them, 
recourse  was  had  to  threats  to  intimidate  her.  Tarred 
rings  were  hung  against  the  houses,  and  it  was  sworn  to 
lay  the  town  in  ashes  if  Leipsic  did  not  immediately  pay 
the  million  of  dollars  demanded.  But  the  unfortunate 
inhabitants  had  already  reached  that  pitch  of  despera- 
tion at  which  people  are  prepared  for  any  thing,  and 
fear  nothing  further  because  there  is  nothing  more  to 
lose.  They  declared  that  they  could  pay  no  more,  and 
offered  to  seal  their  word  with  their  death. 

The  tarred  rings  were  indeed  taken  down  from  the 
houses,  but  the  richest  and  most  respectable  inhabitants 
were  seized  and  incarcerated.  Even  the  authorities  were 
not  spared,  and  the  officers  of  the  Council  were  thrown 
into  the  prisons  of  the  towns.  In  the  most  degrading 
manner,  like  a  flock  of  sheep,  they  were  shut  up  in  spaces 
hardly  able  to  contain  them;  damp  straw  was  their  bed, 
bread  and  water  their  only  nourishment,  and  this  was 
brought  to  them  with  words  of  cruel  insult  by  their 
Prussian  jailers.  But  to  these  latter  the  burden  soon 
became  too  heavy;  they  were  weary  of  their  cruel  service, 
and  sought  to  lighten  it. 

At  first  they  had  one  hundred  and  twenty  prisoners, 
but,  after  a  fortnight  of  useless  torment,  the  greater 
number  had  been  set  free,  and  only  seventeen  retained. 
To  be  sure,  these  consisted  of  the  richest  and  most  re- 
spectable citizens  of  Leipsic.  And  these  unfortunate 
hostages,  these  spoilt  sons  of  wealth  and  luxury,  were 
now  forced  to  bear  the  whole  weight  of  misfortune,  the 


304  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

entire  anger  of  the  victorious  enemy.  They,  whose 
whole  life  had  been  one  of  indulgence  and  effeminacy, 
had  now  to  undergo  the  greatest  privations,  the  hardest 
sufferings.  The  cold  earth  was  their  bed,  a  piece  of 
bread  thrown  to  them  their  nourishment;  and  it 
was  a  feast  to  them  when  one  of  the  gentlewomen  of 
Leipsic  succeeded  in  obtaining  permission  to  visit  a 
brother  or  husband,  and  was  able  to  smuggle  in  under 
her  silk  dress  a  piece  of  meat  or  a  little  bowl  of  soup  for 
the  martyrs.  These  cruelties  would  doubtless  have  been 
lessened  or  abolished  if  the  king  had  had  positive  knowl- 
edge of  them,  or  if  he  had  believed  that  the  city's  in- 
ability to  pay  was  real,  and  not  a  mere  pretext.  But  the 
king,  vexed  by  the  continually  repeated  complaints,  out 
of  humor  at  the  obstinate  conduct  of  Leipsic,  and  mind- 
ful of  the  vandal  conduct  of  the  Saxons  at  Charlotten- 
burg,  had  issued  strict  orders  not  to  trouble  him  with 
this  business,  and  not  to  report  to  him  about  them  until 
they  could  at  the  same  time  show  that  the  sum  demand- 
ed had  been  paid.  And  therewith  sentence  had  been 
passed  upon  the  unfortunate  citizens  of  Leipsic.  No  one 
dared  to  mention  to  the  king  the  torments  and  tortures 
to  which  the  hostages  of  the  pitiable  town  were  sub- 
jected. No  one  had  the  courage  to  beg  for  mercy  for 
those  whose  only  crime  was,  that  their  riches  were  ex- 
hausted, their  coffers  empty,  and  that  they  did  not  pos- 
sess the  means  to  pay  the  inordinate  sums  demanded  of 
them. 

But  while  the  population  of  Leipsic  was  undergoing 
this  grief,  this  hard  time  of  trial,  an  uninterrupted  quiet 
and  precious  peace  prevailed  in  the  house  inhabited  by 
the  King  of  Prussia.  Music  was  performed,  readings 
were  held,  and  in  the  midst  of  these  gentle  diversions 
and  this  pleasant  rest  Frederick  drew  up  the  plans  of 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  395 

fresh  battles  and  new  and  great  undertakings.  Fasch 
and  Quanz  had  been  brought  from  Berlin  to  play  music 
for  him,  the  Marquis  d'Argens  to  philosophize  for  him, 
his  dogs  to  amuse  him.  The  king,  who  knew  enough  of 
men  to  despise  the  wavering,  erring,  sinful  creatures, 
was  also  a  sufficient  connoisseur  of  dogs  to  love  the  faith- 
ful, obedient,  submissive  animals  with  his  whole  heart, 
and  devoted  a  great  part  of  his  time  to  them.  He  who 
was  deaf  to  the  wailing  and  lamentations  of  a  whole  city, 
had  his  ears  open  to  the  least  whine  of  Biche,  or  his 
favorite  Psyche,  and  never  would  have  forgiven  him  who 
had  dared  to  treat  one  of  his  dogs  as  so  many  of  the  noble 
and  distinguished  citizens  of  Leipsic  were  being  treated 
in  his  name. 


CHAPTEE    III. 

THE    FKIEND   IN   NEED. 

JJo  one  would  have  dared  to  speak  a  word  for  the 
refractory  citizens  and  authorities  of  Leipsic  to  the  king, 
nor  act  in  direct  contravention  to  his  express  orders. 
Even  the  Marquis  d'Argens,  his  intimate  friend  and 
confidant,  had  refused  to  be  the  advocate  of  the 
unfortunate  town.  It  seemed  to  be  lost,  without  hope 
of  redemption,  and  already  it  had  been  threatened  with 
the  extreme  of  severity.  It  had  been  announced  to  the 
chief  men,  the  fathers  and  heads  of  families  who  were 
pining  in  the  prisons,  that  they  would  be  transported  on 
foot  to  Magdeburg  as  recruits,  with  knapsacks  on  their 
backs.  But  at  this  moment  the  rescuer  in  need,  of 
the  afflicted  city,  made  his  appearance. 

A  tall,  proud,  manly  form  crossed  the  antechamber 


306  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

of  the  king.  Power  and  energy  were  visible  in  his  coun- 
tenance, and  his  eyes  sparkled  with  noble  excitement. 
He  was  going  to  perform  that  duty  from  which  courtiers 
and  flatterers  shrank  with  trembling;  and  what  the  brav- 
est generals  did  not  dare,,  he  was  going  to  undertake. 
John  Gotzkowsky  was  going  to  tell  the  king  the  truth. 
John  Gotzkowsky  was  not  afraid  to  rouse  the  anger  of 
a  king,  when  it  came  to  helping  the  unfortunate  or  pro- 
tecting the  oppressed.  He  had  a  more  noble  mission 
to  perform  than  to  sue  for  the  smiles  of  a  king,  or  the 
favor  of  the  great.  It  was  the  higher  mission  of  hu- 
manity which  impelled  him,  and,  as  usual,  his  resolution 
was  firm  and  unwavering.  With  bold  decision  he 
reached  the  door  which  led  into  the  king's  chamber. 
He  had  the  privilege  of  entering  unannounced,  for  the 
king  expected  him. 

He  had  summoned  Gotzkowsky  from  Berlin,  to  ob- 
tain information  as  to  the  progress  of  the  Berlin  indus- 
trial works,  and  the  faithful  patriot  had,  in  obedience  to 
the  call  of  his  king,  come  to  Leipsic.  He  had  seen  the 
misery  and  suffering  on  this  poor,  down-trodden  town, 
and,  as  he  traversed  the  antechamber,  he  said  to  himself, 
with  an  imperceptible  smile,  "  I  brought  the  Russian 
general  to  clemency,  and  the  king  will  not  be  harder 
than  he  was." 

But  before  he  threw  off  his  cloak,  he  drew  out  of  it 
a  small  package,  which  he  examined  carefully.  Being 
satisfied  with  its  appearance,  he  took  it  with  him  to  the 
cabinet  of  the  king.  Frederick  did  not  look  at  him  at 
first.  He  was  reclining  on  the  floor,  and  around  him, 
on  silken  cushions,  lay  his  dogs,  their  bright  eyes  fixed 
on  a  dish  which  was  placed  in  the  midst  of  them.  The 
king,  with  an  ivory  stick,  was  carefully  dividing  the 
portion  for  each  dog,  ordering  the  growling,  discon- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  307 

tented  ones  to  be  quiet,  and  comforting  the  patiently 
waiting  ones  with  a  light  jest  concerning  the  next  piece. 
Suddenly  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  his  quick  glance  rested 
on  Gotzkowsky's  smiling,  placid  face.  "  Ah,  you  laugh," 
said  he,  "  and  in  your  human  conceit  you  find  it  quite 
beneath  one's  dignity  to  occupy  one's  self  with  dogs, 
when  there  are  so  many  human  beings.  Let  me  tell 
you,  you  don't  understand  any  thing  about  it!  You 
don't  know  dogs  at  all,  and  perhaps  you  don't  know 
men. — Quiet,  Biche!  leave  that  piece  for  Apollo.  I 
gave  it  to  him,  and  therefore  it  belongs  to  him.  One 
would  suppose  you  had  been  learning  from  men,  and  in 
the  true  spirit  of  Christian  and  brotherly  love,  grudged 
each  other  a  piece  of  bread.  Quiet,  Biche,  and  don't 
be  vexed  that  I  compared  you  to  human  beings.  I  did 
not  mean  you  were  quite  as  bad  as  that." 

And  gently  stroking  and  caressing  the  offended 
Biche,  he  rose  and  seated  himself  in  his  velvet-covered 
fauteuil.  His  bright  eye  turned  toward  Gotzkowsky, 
and  rested  on  the  package  the  latter  had  in  his  hand. 
"  What  have  you  there?  " 

"A  plate  and  a  cup,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  seriously — 
"  the  first  two  pieces  from  my  porcelain  factory  in  Ber- 
lin." 

The  king  now  rose  from  his  seat  and  strode  hastily 
toward  Gotzkowsky.  "  Give  them  here.  I  want  to  see 
what  sort  of  potters'-ware  you  are  going  to  impose  upon 
me  for  porcelain."  With  impatient  hands  he  tore  off 
the  paper  coverings,  and  so  eagerly  was  he  engaged 
with  them,  that  he  did  not  perceive  that  Biche  and 
Apollo  were  already  fighting  for  a  scrap  of  paper  which 
he  had  thrown  directly  on  Biche's  nose,  and  which  she 
consequently  mistook  for  a  delicate  morsel,  a  prize  worth 
a  fight  with  Apollo.  "  Forsooth,  it  is  porcelain!  "  cried 


308  THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN. 

the  king,  as  he  drew  out  the  gold-rimmed  plate  and  the 
beautifully  painted  cup  from  their  wrappings,  and 
looked  at  them  attentively;  and  as  his  eye  rested  on  the 
painting  of  the  cup,  his  features  assumed  a  soft  and  sad 
expression.  "  My  house  in  Kheinsberg,"  muttered  he 
softly  to  himself — "  a  greeting  from  my  happy  days." 

"  In  the  castle  Rheinsberg,  I  first  enjoyed  the  favor 
of  being  presented  to  your  majesty/'  said  Gotzkowsky. 
"  Castle  Kheinsberg  is,  therefore,  to  me  a  happy  recol- 
lection, and  it  was  for  that  reason  selected  to  adorn  the 
proof  pieces  of  my  porcelain  factory." 

The  king  fastened  a  penetrating  look  upon  him. 
"  You  are  playing  me  a  trick — I  don't  like  tricks,  you 
must  know.  Therefore  tell  me  the  truth.  Where  did 
you  get  this  porcelain?  It  is  not  from  Meissen.  The 
mark  is  wanting,  and  it  is  whiter  and  stronger.  Where 
did  you  get  it?  " 

"  From  Berlin,  sire.  I  promised  you,  when  you  were 
in  Meissen,  that  in  future  you  should  procure  your  porce- 
lain from  your  own  dominions,  and  I  dare  not  forfeit  my 
word." 

"  And  so  you  imitated  the  Almighty,  and  created  a 
porcelain  factory  with  the  breath  of  your  mouth?  " 

"  Not  with  the  breath  of  my  mouth,  but  the  breath 
of  my  money." 

"  Tell  me  about  it,  and  all  the  particulars,"  said  the 
king,  still  holding  the  cup  in  his  hand,  and  looking  at  it 
attentively. 

And  Gotzkowsky  related  how,  on  his  return  from 
Meissen,  he  had  accidentally  made  the  acquaintance  of  a 
young  man,  who  was  passing  through  Berlin  on  his  way 
to  Gotha,  the  duke  having  offered  to  advance  him  the 
capital  necessary  to  found  a  factory  for  the  making  of 
porcelain  according  to  a  process  of  his  own  invention. 


THE  GREAT  FREDERICK  EXAMINING  THE  PORCELAIN  CUP. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  309 

The  specimens  exhibited  convinced  Gotzkowsky  that  this 
young  man  was  fully  acquainted  with  the  secret  of  porce- 
lain-making, and  he  had  therefore  immediately  deter- 
mined to  forestall  the  Duke  of  Gotha. 

Money  had  in  this  instance,  as  usual,  exercised  its 
charm,  and  nothing  more  was  necessary  than  to  outbid 
the  terms  agreed  on  with  the  duke.  A  few  thousand 
dollars  more  offered,  and  double  purchase-money,  had 
secured  the  secret  of  porcelain-making  to  Gotzkowsky, 
and  bound  the  inventor  down  in  Berlin  for  life.* 

The  arrangements  necessary  for  the  first  attempts 
were  made  in  one  of  the  out-buildings  of  his  house,  and 
the  articles  offered  to  the  king  were  the  first-fruits  of  his 
factory.  The  king  listened  to  him  with  intense  interest, 
and  when  Gotzkowsky.  had  finished,  he  nodded  to  him 
with  a  smile. 

"  The  Marquis  d'Argens  is  right.  I  wish  myself  I 
had  many  such  citizens  as  you  are.  It  would  be  a  fine 
thing  to  be  a  king  if  all  one's  subjects  were  true  men, 
and  made  it  worth  one's  while  to  be  to  them  a  kind 
father  and  lord.  You  have  fulfilled  a  favorite  wish  of 
mine;  and  let  me  tell  you,  I  do  not  think  you  will  call 
the  porcelain  factory  yours  long.  I  think  it  will  soon 
be  a  royal  factory." 

"  I  founded  it  for  your  majesty." 

"  Good,  good!  you  have  given  me  a  pleasure,  I  will 
give  you  one  in  return.  Ask  some  favor  for  yourself. 
You  are  silent.  Do  you  know  of  nothing  to  ask  for?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  ardently,  "  I 

*  Porcelain-making  was  then  a  great  secret  in  Germany,  only 
known  in  Meissen ;  the  process  being  conducted  with  closed  doors, 
and  the  foreman  bound  by  oath.  Gotzkowsky  paid  ten  thousand 
dollars  down,  a  life  income  of  a  thousand  dollars,  and  house  and 
firewood  free. — "  Life  of  a  Patriotic  Mercnant,"  p.  87. 


310  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

have  a  great  favor  to  ask — have  pity  on  the  poor  inhab- 
itants of  this  town! " 

The  king  frowned  and  pressed  his  lips  angrily  to- 
gether. "  Do  you  know  that  I  have  generally  forbidden 
any  one  to  trouble  me  with  these  Leipsic  jeremiades?  " 

"  I  know  it,  sire." 

The  king  looked  at  him  with  astonishment.  "  And 
yet  you  do  it?" 

"  Yes,  sire,  I  do  it  because  I  relied  on  the  kind,  noble 
heart  of  my  king,  and  because  humanity  bade  me  not  to 
fear  your  majesty's  anger,  when  it  became  a  question 
of  mercy  to  the  oppressed." 

"  And  for  this  reason  you  wanted  to  bribe  me  with 
your  bits  of  porcelain.  Oh,  you  are  a  reckoner,  but  this 
time  you  have  reckoned  without  your  host.  No  pity  for 
these  obstinate  Leipsigers.  They  must  pay  the  eleven 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  or — " 

"  Or  what?  "  asked  Gotzkowsky,  as  he  hesitated. 

The  king  looked  angrily  at  him.  "  You  are  very 
bold,"  said  he,  "  to  interrupt  me.  The  Leipsigers  must 
pay,  for  I  need  the  money  for  my  soldiers,  and  they  are 
rich;  they  are  able  to  pay!  " 

"  They  are  not  able  to  pay,  sire!  They  are  as  little 
able  to  pay  as  Berlin  is  if  Eussia  insists  upon  her  de- 
mands, and  her  magnanimous  king  does  not  come  to  her 
assistance.  But  your  majesty  certainly  does  not  wish 
that  the  world  and  history  shall  say  that  Eussia  acted 
with  more  forbearance  and  clemency  toward  Berlin  than 
Prussia  did  toward  Leipsic?  To  be  sure,  the  Eussians 
carried  off  the  Jewish  elders  into  captivity  because  they 
could  not  pay,  but  then  they  treated  these  poor  victims 
of  their  avarice  like  human  beings.  They  did  not  make 
them  sleep  on  rotten  straw;  they  did  not  let  them  starve, 
and  die  of  misery  and  filth;  they  did  not  have  them 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  31 1 

scourged  and  tortured  until  they  wet  with  their  tears 
the  bit  of  bread  thrown  to  them." 

"  Who  does  that  ?  "  cried  the  king,  with  thundering 
voice  and  flashing  eye. 

Gotzkowsky  bowed  low.  "  Your  majesty,  the  King 
of  Prussia  does  that!  " 

Frederick  uttered  a  cry  of  anger,  and  advanced  with 
his  arm  raised  on  Gotzkowsky,  who  looked  at  him  quiet- 
ly and  firmly.  "  You  lie!  retract! "  thundered  the 
king. 

"  I  have,  as  long  as  I  have  lived,  spoken  the  truth, 
sire — the  truth,  without  fear  or  dread  of  man.  Your 
majesty  is  the  first  man  who  has  accused  me  of  a  lie. 
I  have  seen  with  my  own  eyes  your  majesty's  officials 
treating  the  poor  captive  Leipsic  merchants  like  dogs. 
What  do  I  say — like  dogs?  Oh,  how  would  the  poor 
down-trodden  men  envy  those  dogs  the  delicacies  con- 
tained in  that  dish!  It  may  be  right  to  compel  and 
humble  the  refractory,  but  it  is  not  right  to  tread  out 
the  human  soul,  and  even  in  the  conquered  you  should 
honor  God's  image." 

The  king  looked  at  him  with  ludicrous  surprise. 
"  Do  you  wish  to  give  me  a  lesson  ?  Well,  I  will  forgive 
you  this  time,  and,  as  you  express  it,  honor  God's  image 
in  the  owner  of  the  Berlin  porcelain  factory.  But  hush 
about  these  hard-headed  Leipsigers.  They  must  pay. 
My  soldiers  cannot  live  on  air,  and  my  coffers  are 
empty." 

"  The  Leipsigers  are  very  willing  to  contribute,  but 
the  demand  must  not  exceed  their  powers." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"  The  magistracy  and  merchant  guild  of  Leipsic 
sent  a  deputation  to  me,  and  entreated  my  mediation." 

"  You  have  then  already  the  reputation  of  one  who 


312  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

knows  how  to  use  his  tongue  well,  and  goes  about  tat- 
tling with  it." 

"  Sire,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  smiling,  "  we  only  follow 
the  example  of  our  hero-king.  We  all  are  anxious  to 
fight,  and  those  who  have  no  swords  must  fight  with  the 
tongue.  I  have  latterly  been  compelled  to  fight  a  great 
deal  with  it,  and  the  Leipsic  merchants  may  have  heard 
something  about  that.  They  knew  that  I  had  some 
exercise  with  my  tongue,  and  gained  a  little  victory  with 
it  over  the  Eussians  in  Berlin." 

"How  much  do  you  think  the  city  of  Leipsic  can 
pay  ?  "  asked  the  king  after  a  pause. 

"If  your  majesty  will  remit  them  a  few  hundred 
thousand  dollars,  and  allow  the  merchants  time,  they  are 
willing  to  bind  themselves  in  joint  bonds." 

" Parbleu!  are  they  willing  to  do  that?"  asked  the 
king,  derisively.  "  The  bonds  of  the  Leipsic  merchants 
would  be  no  security  to  me."  And  turning  quickly  on 
Gotzkowsky,  he  asked  him,  "  Are  you  willing  to  guaran- 
tee the  payment?" 

"  If  your  majesty  orders  it,  the  bonds  shall  be  drawn 
out  with  my  guaranty." 

"  I  look  to  you,  then,  for  their  payment." 

"  At  your  orders,  sire." 

"Well,  then,  for  your  sake  I  will  remit  the  Leip- 
sigers  three  hundred  thousand  dollars;  but  for  the  rest 
of  the  million  you  are  answerable." 

"  I  will  be  answerable  for  it." 

"  I  will  let  these  gentlemen  of  Leipsic  know  that  it 
is  to  your  intercession  and  your  guaranty  that  they  are 
indebted  for  the  mitigation  of  their  contributions;  and 
then  you  can,  if  it  gives  you  pleasure,  bargain  with  the 
rich  town  for  some  reward  for  your  services  rendered." 

"  That  would  give  me  no  pleasure,  sire!  "  cried  Gotz- 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN.  313 

kowsky,  with  noble  indignation.  "  Your  majesty  must 
not  think  so  meanly  of  me  as  to  suppose  that  I  \\ould 
make  a  profit  out  of  the  misfortunes  of  others,  and  that 
I  have  interceded  for  the  poor  Leipsigers  in  order  to 
make  a  trade  out  of  them!  " 

"  I  think  that  you  are  a  hard-headed,  obstinate  fel- 
low, who  must  be  allowed  to  have  his  own  way,"  said  the 
king,  with  an  affable  smile.  "  But  I  must  bear  you 
witness  that,  in  your  own  way,  you  have  rendered  me 
many  a  good  service.  For  that  reason,  you  will  always 
find  me  well  affected  toward  you,  and  in  the  Sans-Souci 
gallery  you  have  created  a  beautiful  memorial  to  your- 
self." 

"  If  your  majesty  would  come  there  now,  you  would 
find  the  Correggio  about  which  you  wrote  to  the  Marquis 
d'Argens." 

The  king's  eyes  sparkled.  "  The  Correggio  is  mine !  " 
said  he,  walking  up  and  down  slowly,  with  his  hands  be- 
hind his  back.  "  Ah,"  added  he,  after  a  long  pause,  in 
a  low  tone,  as  if  speaking  to  himself,  "  when  will  this  no- 
madic life  cease,  and  the  world  be  at  peace,  to  allow  this 
poor,  badgered  king  a  few  hours  of  leisure  and  recreation, 
to  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  his  house  and  his  pictures? 
The  wandering  Jew,  if  he  ever  existed,  did  not  lead  such 
a  rambling  life  as  I  do.  We  get  at  last  to  be  like  the 
roving  play-actors,  who  have  neither  hearth  nor  home, 
and  thus  we  pass  through  the  world,  playing  our  bloody 
tragedies,  with  the  wailings  of  our  subjects  for  chorus.* 
When  will  it  end?" 

"  When  your  majesty  has  subdued  all  your  enemies." 

The  king  looked  around  with  surprise — he  had  quite 
forgotten  Gotzkowsky.  "Ah!  are  you  still  there?  and 
you  prophesy  me  victory?  Well,  that  will  be  as  good 
*  "  Correspondance  de  Frederic  II.  avec  le  Comte  Algarottis." 


314  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

to  me  as  the  Leipsic  money.  Go  back  home,  and  tell  the 
Leipsigers  to  hurry  with  the  money.  And  hark  ye! 
when  you  get  to  Potsdam,  greet  the  Correggio,  and  tell 
him  I  yearn  for  him  as  a  lover  does  for  his  mistress. 
Adieu! " 


CHAPTEE   IV. 

GRATITUDE   AND   RECOMPENSE. 

THUS  did  Gotzkowsky  save  unfortunate  Leipsic  from 
the  heavy  burden  which  weighed  her  down.  The  pris- 
oners were  released,  and  the  merchants  gave  a  bond,  for 
whose  punctual  and  prompt  payment  Gotzkowsky  guar- 
anteed with  his  signature. 

He  did  not  do  this  from  a  selfish  or  vain  ambition  to 
have  the  praise  of  his  name  sounded,  nor  to  increase  the 
number  of  his  addresses  of  gratitude,  or  written  assevera- 
tions of  affection.  He  did  it  from  love  of  mankind; 
because  he  desired  to  fulfil  the  vow  he  had  made  to  God 
and  himself  on  the  highway  as  a  shivering,  starving  lad: 
that  if  he  should  ever  become  rich,  he  would  be  to  every 
unfortunate  and  needy  one  the  hand  which  had  ap- 
peared out  of  the  dust-cloud  to  his  relief.  He  did  it  be- 
cause, as  he  tells  us  naively  and  simply  in  his  Life,  "  I 
knew  from  my  own  experience  how  difficult  it  was  for  a 
community  to  collect  such  a  sum,  and  because  the  idea 
of  profiting  by  such  misfortune  was  abhorrent  to  me." 

And  now  there  was  a  brilliant  banquet,  and  no  end 
to  the  words  of  gratitude  and  tears  of  emotion.  This 
banquet  was  given  by  the  Leipsic  merchants  in  honor  of 
him  who  had  so  magnanimously  taken  their  part,  saved 
them  three  hundred  thousand  dollars,  and  guaranteed 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  315 

their  bonds.  And  they  devoured  the  delicate  viands 
and  emptied  the  beakers  to  his  honor,  and  praised  him 
in  high-sounding  speeches. 

When  Gotzkowsky,  wearied  and  bored  by  this  festival, 
returned  home,  he  found  on  his  table  three  letters.  The 
one  which  bore  on  its  seal  the  arms  of  Prussia  he  opened 
first.  It  was  a  cabinet  order  from  the  king  to  his  private 
secretary,  Leinning,  to  pay  to  the  merchant,  John  Gotz- 
kowsky, one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  "  Ah," 
said  he,  smiling,  "  payment  on  account;  I  bought  a  hun- 
dred thousand  ducats'  worth  of  paintings  for  the  king, 
and  he  does  not  wish  to  remain  always  in  my  debt." 
With  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders  he  opened  the  second 
letter.  Suddenly  he  burst  into  a  loud  laugh,  and  his 
countenance  assumed  an  expression  of  derisive  mirth. 
"  The  Elector  of  Saxony,  in  consideration  of  services 
rendered  to  the  town  of  Leipsic,  appoints  me  his  com- 
mercial privy  councillor!  "  cried  he,  waving  the  paper 
in  the  air;  "  that  is  a  good  joke!  The  little  elector,  who 
has  been  my  debtor  for  many  long  years,  is  gracious 
enough  to  throw  me  a  bit  of  rank — a  title!  Much 
obliged!  My  name  sounds  well  enough.  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  have  a  title  to  be  a  man  of  honor.  Throw  titles 
to  numskulls,  not  to  me — away  with  it!  " 

He  then  threw  the  paper  aside  with  scorn,  and  took 
up  the  third  letter.  As  he  read  it  his  noble  countenance 
brightened  up  with  proud  pleasure,  and  his  eyes  sparkled. 
It  was  a  document  from  the  town  of  Leipsic,  an  address 
of  thanks  from  the  magistracy,  the  concluding  words  of 
which  ran  thus: 

"  In  our  extreme  need  we  had  recourse  to  Herr  Gotz- 
kowsky, the  respected  merchant  and  banker  of  Berlin, 
imploring  the  same  to  intercede  for  this  town  and  its 
merchants  with  the  king  of  Prussia;  affording  them  his 


316  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

credit  and  valuable  assistance,  to  accord  to  said  town 
some  reasonable  respite  for  payment,  with  security.  To 
this  earnest  pleading  Herr  Gotzkowsky  yielded,  and,  as 
a  true  philanthropist,  without  any  ulterior  views  of  profit 
to  himself,  did  in  the  most  praiseworthy  manner  assist 
us,  and  averted  this  misfortune  from  the  town.  These 
services  we  are  compelled  to  acknowledge.  We  there- 
fore offer  our  services  in  return  on  all  possible  occasions, 
not  doubting  that  the  mercantile  community  of  this 
place  entertain  the  same  sentiments,  and  feel  themselves 
equally  bound  to  all  imaginable  reciprocity. 

[SIGNED]  "  THE  COUNCIL  OP  LEIPSIC. 

"  LEIPSIC,  February  26,  1761." 

"  This  paper  I  will  carry  to  my  daughter,  as  a  sou- 
venir," said  Gotzkowsky,  folding  it  up  carefully,  and 
then  added  thoughtfully :  "  Who  knows  but  what  the 
time  may  come  when  it  will  be  necessary  to  remind  the 
merchants  of  Leipsic  of  this  document?  The  opinions 
and  destinies  of  men  are  very  variable." 

But  Gotzkowsky  himself  was  to  have  occasion  to  re- 
mind unthankful  Leipsic  of  her  professions  of  gratitude 
— not  to  call  on  her  to  perform  reciprocal  favors,  but  to 
protect  himself  against  calumny  and  unfriendly  suspi- 
cions. For  a  day  came,  when  Leipsic  forgot  the  affliction 
and  grief  she  had  suffered,  and  only  remembered  that 
John  Gotzkowsky  was  her  creditor,  and  that  she  owed 
him  large  sums  of  money.  So,  when  at  last,  weary  of 
long  waiting,  he  pressed  for  payment,  they  accused  him 
of  self-interest,  and  said  that  he  had  unnecessarily  mixed 
himself  up  in  their  affairs,  and  that  it  would  have  been 
better  if  he  had  left  them  to  their  captivity;  for  al- 
though they  might  have  had  much  to  suffer,  they  would 
have  had  but  little  to  pay. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  317 

Gotzkowsky  answered  these  accusations  in  a  manner 
characteristic  of  his  noble,  proud  self — he  was  silent 
about  them.  But  hard  times  and  oppression  came  again 
upon  the  rich  town  of  Leipsic. 

The  Prussian  king  exacted  fresh  contributions — and 
now  they  recalled  to  mind  the  services  of  Gotzkowsky; 
again  they  sent  him  humble  letters,  begging  him  to  have 
pity  on  them;  and  now  the  cunning,  calculating  magis- 
tracy of  Leipsic  saw  fit  to  take  notice  of  these  calumnies, 
which  they  had  shortly  before  so  industriously  circulated 
through  the  public  newspapers,  and  solemnly  to  declare 
in  all  the  journals:  "  We  hereby  certify,  in  compliance 
with  truth,  through  these  writings,  that  the  worshipful 
Herr  Gotzkowsky,  as  well  in  past  years,  as  at  the  late 
Leipsic  fair,  out  of  unchanged  and  innate  love  and 
friendly  kindness  to  us,  this  town,  and  its  inhabitants, 
has  given  just  cause  for  gratitude." 

Gotzkowsky  forgot  the  insults,  and  was  again  ol 
assistance  to  them.  A  second  time  he  persuaded  the 
king  to  mitigate  their  contribution,  and  guaranteed  the 
new  bonds  issued  by  them.  A  second  time  the  magis- 
trates and  merchants  thanked  him  in  the  most  touching 
words  for  his  noble  and  disinterested  assistance,  and  a 
second  time  were  they  destined  to  forget  their  vows  oi 
gratitude. 

CHAPTER   V. 
FOUR  TEARS'  LABOR. 

FOUR  years  of  work,  of  industry,  of  productive  ac- 
tivity, had  passed  away  since  the  stormy  year  of  1760. 
They  had  produced  but  little  alteration  in  the  life  of 
Gotzkowsky  and  his  daughter. 
21 


318  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Gotzkowsky  toiled  and  worked  as  he  always  had 
done;  his  factories  were  enlarged,  his  wealth  increased, 
and  his  fame  as  a  merchant  sounded  through  the  whole 
world. 

But  all  this  would  he  have  given,  if  he  could  have 
seen  the  light  on  the  lips,  the  rosy  glow  on  the  cheek  of 
his  daughter,  as  in  bygone  days.  But  the  beautiful  and 
impassioned  young  girl  had  altered  into  the  pale,  seri- 
ous, silent  young  woman,  who  had  learned  to  throw  the 
veil  of  quiet  resignation  over  the  secret  of  her  heart,  and 
to  suppress  any  manifestation  of  pain. 

Elise  had  grown  old  internally — old,  despite  her  two- 
and-twenty  years;  she  looked  upon  the  life  before  her  as 
a  joyless,  desert  waste,  which  she  had  to  traverse  with 
bleeding  feet  and  broken  heart;  and  in  the  desolation 
of  her  soul,  she  sometimes  shuddered  at  the  death-like 
apathy  and  quiet  of  her  feelings,  broken  by  no  sound, 
no  note,  not  even  the  wail  of  woe. 

She  was  without  a  wish,  without  a  hope.  Grief  had 
spent  itself  on  her.  She  wept  no  more — she  wrestled  no 
longer  with  her  love,  for  she  had  conquered  it.  But  she 
could  not  rise  again  to  any  new  joys  of  life — she  could 
only  be  resigned.  She  had  accepted  life,  and  she  bore 
it  as  does  the  bird  shut  up  in  a  gilded  cage,  robbed  of 
freedom  and  fresh  air,  and  given  in  return  a  brilliant 
prison.  She,  too,  was  an  imprisoned  bird;  and  her 
wounded  heart  lay  in  the  cage  of  her  breast,  sorrowful 
and  infinitely  wretched.  She  prayed  to  God  for  peace, 
for  resignation,  no  longer  for  happiness,  for  she  did  not 
believe  happiness  any  more  possible.  She  had  sunk  into 
that  apathy  which  desires  nothing  more  than  a  quiet, 
dreamy  fading  away.  Her  grief  was  deficient  in  the 
animating  consolation  of  the  thought  that  "it  came 
from  God."  Real  and  sacred  suffering,  which  does  come 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  319 

from  God,  and  is  imposed  upon  us  by  fate,  always  carries 
with  it  the  divine  power  of  healing;  and  at  the  same 
time  that  it  casts  us  down  and  humbles  us,  raises  us 
again,  steels  our  courage,  and  makes  us  strong  and  proud 
to  suffer  and  to  bear.  Quite  different  is  that  misfortune 
which  comes  from  man — which  is  laid  upon  us  by  the 
envy,  hatred,  and  malice  of  mankind.  This  carries  with 
it  no  consolation,  no  comfort — a  misfortune  full  of  bit- 
terness and  murmuring — a  misfortune  which  abases  us 
without  elevating  us  again,  which  casts  us  down  in  the 
mire,  from  the  soil  of  which  not  all  the  hot  streams  of 
our  tears  can  purify  and  cleanse  us.  Had  she  lost  her 
lover,  had  he  been  snatched  away  from  her  by  death, 
Elise,  while  she  gave  him  back  to  God,  would  have  re- 
garded this  heavy  and  sacred  affliction  as  her  great  and 
holy  happiness;  she  would  have  accepted  it  as  a  precious 
promise  which  elevated  her,  and  inspired  her  with  a  bliss- 
ful hope. 

But  she  had  lost  him  by  his  own  treachery,  by  world- 
ly sin,  and  she  had  given  him  up,  not  to  God,  but  to  his 
own  unrighteousness  and  disloyalty.  She  had  there- 
fore lost  him  irretrievably,  and  for  always — not  for  a 
short  space  of  time,  but  for  all  eternity;  and  she  dared 
not  even  weep  for  him,  for  her  misfortune  was  at  the 
same  time  her  disgrace,  and  even  her  tears  filled  her  with 
humiliation  and  shame.  For  that  reason  she  never 
spoke,  either  with  her  father  or  with  Bertram,  about  the 
sad  and  painful  past,  about  the  errors  and  disappoint- 
ments of  her  youth;  and  neither  of  them  in  their  pure 
and  indulgent  love  ever  trespassed  on  the  silence  which 
Elise  had  spread  over  her  sorrow.  Toward  her  father 
she  was  a  careful,  attentive,  and  submissive  daughter; 
toward  Bertram  a  confiding  and  loving  sister;  but  to 
both  she  felt  as  if  she  were  only  giving  what  was  saved 


320  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

from  the  shipwreck  of  her  affections.  They  both  knew 
that  Elise  could  no  longer  offer  them  an  entire,  un- 
broken heart.  But  they  were  both  content  to  rest  on 
the  embers  of  this  ruined  edifice,  to  gather  the  leaves  of 
this  rose,  broken  by  the  tempest,  and  to  remember  how 
beautiful  it  was  in  its  bloom. 

Gotzkowsky  only  asked  of  his  daughter  that  she 
should  live,  that  she  should  become  again  healthy  and 
strong  for  new  happiness. 

Bertram,  in  the  strength  and  fidelity  of  his  affections, 
had  no  other  wish  than  that  he  should  some  day  see  her 
cheerful  and  content  again,  and  once  more  brightened 
by  the  beams  which  only  love  and  happiness  can  spread 
over  a  human  countenance;  and  in  his  great  and  self- 
sacrificing  love  he  said  to  himself:  "  If  I  only  knew  that 
her  happiness  lay  in  the  remotest  corner  of  the  world, 
thither  would  I  go  to  fetch  it  for  her,  even  if  she  there- 
by were  lost  to  me  forever!  " 

And  thus  did  four  years  pass  away — externally, 
bright  and  clear,  surrounded  by  all  the  brilliancy  of 
wealth  and  happiness — inwardly,  silent  and  desolate,  full 
of  privation  and  deep-rooted  sorrow. 


CHAPTER   VI. 

DAYS    OF    MISFORTUNE. 


GOTZKOWSKY  was  alone  in  his  room.  It  was  an 
elegant,  brilliantly  ornamented  apartment,  which  the 
greatest  prince  might  have  envied.  The  most  select 
pictures  by  celebrated  old  masters  hung  around  on  the 
walls;  the  most  costly  Chinese  vases  stood  on  gilt  tables; 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  321 

and  between  the  windows,  instead  of  mirrors,  were  placed 
the  most  exquisite  Greek  marble  statues.  The  furniture 
of  the  room  was  simple.  Gotzkowsky  had  but  one  passion, 
on  which  he  spent  yearly  many  thousands,  and  that  was 
for  art-treasures,  paintings,  and  antiques.  His  house 
resembled  a  temple  of  art;  it  contained  the  rarest  and 
choicest  treasures;  and  when  Gotzkowsky  passed  through 
the  rooms  on  the  arm  of  his  daughter,  and  contemplated 
the  pictures,  or  dwelt  with  her  on  one  of  the  sublime 
statues  of  the  gods,  his  eye  beamed  with  blissful  satis- 
faction, and  his  whole  being  breathed  cheerfulness  and 
calm.  But  at  this  moment  his  countenance  was  care- 
worn and  anxious,  and  however  pleasantly  and  cheerfully 
the  pictures  looked  down  upon  him  from  the  walls,  his 
eye  remained  sad  and  clouded,  and  deep  grief  was  ex- 
pressed in  his  features. 

He  sat  at  his  writing-table,  and  turned  over  the 
papers  which  lay  piled  up  high  before  him.  At  times 
he  looked  deeply  shocked  and  anxious,  and  his  whole 
frame  trembled,  as  with  hasty  hand  he  transcribed  some 
notes  from  another  sheet.  Suddenly  he  let  the  pen 
drop,  and  sank  his  head  on  his  breast. 

"  It  is  in  vain,"  he  muttered  in  a  low  voice — "  yes,  it 
is  in  vain.  If  I  were  to  exert  all  my  power,  if  I  were  to 
collect  all  my  means  together,  they  would  not  be  suffi- 
cient to  pay  these  enormous  sums." 

Again  he  turned  over  the  papers,  and  pointing  with 
his  finger  to  one  of  them,  he  continued:  "  Yes,  there  it 
stands.  I  am  a  rich  man  on  paper.  Leipsic  owes  me 
more  than  a  million.  If  she  pays,  and  De  Neufville 
comes,  I  am  saved.  But  if  not — if  Leipsic  once  more, 
as  she  has  already  done  three  times,  protests  her  inabil- 
ity to  pay — if  De  Neufville  does  not  come,  what  shall 
I  do?  How  can  I  save  myself  from  ruin  and  shame?  " 


322  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Deeper  and  deeper  did  he  bury  himself  silently  in  the 
papers.  A  terrible  anxiety  oppressed  him,  and  sent  his 
blood  rushing  to  his  heart  and  head.  He  arose  and 
paced  up  and  down  the  room,  muttering  occasionally  a 
few  words,  betraying  the  anguish  and  terror  which  pos- 
sessed him.  Then  standing  still,  he  pressed  his  hands 
to  his  temples,  as  if  to  crowd  back  the  pain  which 
throbbed  and  ached  there. 

"  Oh,  it  is  terrible!  "  he  uttered  in  a  subdued  voice; 
"  with  my  eyes  open  I  stand  on  the  brink  of  a  precipice. 
I  see  it,  and  cannot  draw  back.  If  no  helping  hand  is 
stretched  out  to  save  me,  I  must  fall  in,  and  my  good 
name  must  perish  with  me.  And  to  be  obliged  to«con- 
f ess  that  not  my  own  want  of  judgment,  no  rashness 
nor  presumption  on  my  part,  but  only  love  of  mankind, 
love  of  my  brethren,  has  brought  me  to  this!  To  each 
one  who  held  out  his  hand  to  me,  I  gave  the  hand  of  a 
friend,  every  one  in  need  I  helped.  And  for  that  reason, 
for  the  good  I  have  done,  I  stand  on  the  verge  of  an 
abyss." 

He  cast  his  looks  toward  heaven,  and  tears  shone  in 
his  eyes.  "  Was  it,  then,  wrong?  0  my  God!  was  it, 
then,  culpable  to  trust  men,  and  must  I  atone  with  my 
honor  for  what  I  did  from  love?  " 

But  this  compunction,  this  depression,  did  not  last 
long.  Gotzkowsky  soon  arose  above  his  grief,  and  bear- 
ing his  head  aloft  as  if  to  shake  off  the  cares  which  low- 
ered around  it,  he  said  in  a  determined  tone:  "  I  must  not 
lose  my  courage.  This  day  requires  all  my  presence  of 
mind,  and  the  decisive  moment  shall  not  find  me  cowed 
and  pusillanimous." 

He  was  about  to  set  himself  to  work  again,  when  a 
repeated  knocking  at  the  door  interrupted  him.  At  his 
reluctant  bidding  it  opened,  and  Bertram  appeared  on 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  323 

the  threshold.  "  Pardon  me,"  he  said,  almost  timidly; 
"  I  knew  that  you  wished  to  be  alone,  but  I  could  not 
bear  it  any  longer.  I  must  see  you.  Only  think,  Fa- 
ther Gotzkowsky,  it  is  a  fortnight  since  I  arrived,  and  I 
have  scarcely  seen  you  in  this  time;  therefore  do  not  be 
angry  with  me  if  I  disobey  your  orders,  and  come  to  you, 
although  I  know  that  you  are  busy." 

Gotzkowsky  nodded  to  him  with  a  sad  smile.  "  I 
thank  you  for  it,"  said  he.  "  I  had  ordered  Peter  not  to 
admit  any  one.  You  are  an  exception,  as  you  know,  my 
son." 

A  pause  ensued,  during  which  Bertram  examined 
Gotzkowsky  with  a  searching  look.  The  latter  had  seated 
himself  again  at  his  writing-table,  and  with  troubled 
looks  was  examining  his  papers. 

Bertram  had  been  absent  for  nearly  a  year.  The 
silent  grief  which  day  and  night  gnawed  at  his  heart  had 
undermined  his  health  and  exhausted  his  physical 
strength.  The  physicians  had  deemed  a  prolonged  resi- 
dence in  Nice  necessary.  If  Bertram  yielded  to  their 
judgment  and  repaired  to  Nice,  it  was  because  he 
thought,  "  Perhaps  Elise  will  think  of  me  when  I  am 
no  longer  near  her.  Perchance  absence  may  warm  her 
heart,  and  she  may  forget  the  brother,  some  day  to  wel- 
come the  husband." 

Returning  after  a  year's  absence,  strengthened  and 
restored  to  health,  he  found  Elise  as  he  had  left  her. 
She  received  him  with  the  same  quiet,  calm  look  with 
which  she  had  bid  him  farewell.  She  placed  her  hand 
as  coolly  and  as  friendly  in  his,  and  althought  she  in- 
quired cordially  and  sympathizingly  after  his  welfare, 
Bertram  still  felt  that  her  heart  and  her  innmost  soul 
had  not  part  in  her  questioning. 

Elise  had  not  altered — but  how  little  was  Gotzkow- 


324  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

eky  like  himself!  Where  was  the  ardent  man,  powerful 
of  will,  whom  Bertram  had  embraced  at  his  departure? 
where  was  his  clear,  ringing  voice,  his  proud  bearing, 
his  energy,  his  burning  eloquence — what  had  become  of 
all  these?  What  diabolical,  dismal  influence  had  suc- 
ceeded in  breaking  this  iron  will,  in  subduing  this  vital 
power? 

Bertram  felt  that  a  deep  grief  was  corroding  Gotz- 
kowsky's  life — a  grief  whose  destructive  influence  was 
greater  because  he  avoided  the  expression  of  it,  and 
sought  no  relief  nor  consolation  by  communicating  it 
to  others.  "  He  shall,  at  least,  speak  to  me,"  said  Ber- 
tram. "  I  will  compel  him  to  make  me  the  confidant 
of  his  grief,  and  to  lighten  his  heart  by  imparting  a 
portion  of  his  burden  to  mine."  With  this  determina- 
tion he  had  entered  Gotzkowsky's  room;  he  now  stood 
opposite  to  him,  and  with  gentle  sympathy  looked  into 
his  pale,  sorrow-worn  countenance. 

But  Gotzkowsky  avoided  his  eye.  He  seemed  en- 
tirely occupied  with  his  papers,  and  turned  them  over 
again  and  again.  Bertram  could  bear  it  no  longer;  he 
hastened  to  him,  and  taking  his  hand  pressed  it  affec- 
tionately to  his  lips.  "My  father,"  said  he,  "forgive 
me;  but  when  I  look  at  you,  I  am  possessed  by  a  vague 
fear  which  I  cannot  explain  to  myself.  You  know  that 
I  love  you  as  my  father,  and  for  that  reason  can  read  your 
thoughts.  Gotzkowsky,  since  my  return  I  have  read 
much  care  and  sorrow  in  your  face." 

"Have  you?"  said  Gotzkowsky,  painfully;  "yes, 
yes,  sorrow  does  not  write  in  hieroglyphics.  It  is  a 
writing  which  he  who  runs  can  read." 

"You  confess,  then,  that  you  have  sorrow,  and  yet 
you  hide  it  from  me.  You  do  not  let  me  share  your 
cares.  Have  I  deserved  that  of  you,  father?  " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  325 

Gotzkowsky  arose  and  paced  the  room,  thoughtful 
and  excited.  For  the  first  time  he  felt  that  the  sym- 
pathy of  a  loving  heart  did  good.  Involuntarily  the 
crust  which  surrounded  his  heart  gave  way,  and  he  be- 
came gentle  and  eager  for  sympathy.  He  held  out  his 
hand  to  Bertram  and  nodded  to  him.  "  You  are  right, 
my  son,"  said  he,  gently,  "  I  should  not  have  kept  my 
sorrows  from  you.  It  is  a  comfort,  perhaps,  to  unbosom 
one's  self.  Listen,  then — but  no!  first  tell  me  what  is 
said  of  me  in  the  city,  and,  above  all,  what  is  said  of  me 
at  the  Bourse?  Ah?  you  cast  your  eyes  down — Ber- 
tram, I  must  and  will  know  all.  Speak  out  freely.  I 
have  courage  to  hear  the  utmost."  But  yet  his  voice 
trembled  as  he  spoke,  and  his  lips  twitched  convulsively. 

Bertram  answered  sadly:  "  What  do  you  care  about 
the  street  gossip  of  envious  people?  You  know  that 
you  have  enemies,  because  you  are  rich  and  high-minded. 
You  have  long  been  envied  because  your  house  is  the 
most  extensive  and  solid  in  all  Europe,  and  because  your 
drafts  stand  at  par  in  all  the  markets.  They  are  jealous 
of  the  fame  of  your  firm,  and  for  that  very  reason  they 
whisper  all  sorts  of  things  that  they  do  not  dare  to  say 
aloud.  But  why  should  you  let  such  miserable  scandal 
worry  you  ?  " 

Bertram  tried  to  smile,  but  it  was  a  sorrowful,  anx- 
ious one,  which  did  not  escape  Gotzkowsky.  "Ah!" 
said  he,  "  these  light  whisperings  of  calumny  are  like  the 
single  snow-flakes  which  finally  collect  together  and  roll 
on  and  on,  and  at  last  become  an  avalanche  which  buries 
up  our  honor  and  our  good  name.  Tell  me,  then,  Ber- 
tram, what  do  they  whisper?  " 

Bertram  answered  in  a  low,  timid  voice:  "  They  pre- 
tend to  know  that  your  house  has  suffered  immense 
losses;  that  you  were  not  able  to  meet  your  drafts;  that 


326  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

all  your  wealth  is  unfounded;  and  that — but  why  should 
I  repeat  all  the  old  women's  and  newspaper  stories?  " 

"Even  the  newspapers  talk  about  it,  then?"  mut- 
tered Gotzkowsky  to  himself. 

"  Yes,  the  Vossian  Gazette,"  continued  Bertram, 
"  has  an  article  in  which  it  speaks  mysteriously  and  sym- 
pathizingly  of  the  impending  failure  of  one  of  our  most 
eminent  houses.  This  is  said  to  aim  at  you,  father." 

"  And  the  other  paper,  Spener's  Journal?  " 

"  Is  sorry  to  join  in  the  statement,  and  confirms  it  to- 
day." 

Gotzkowsky  broke  out  into  a  mocking  laugh,  his 
countenance  brightened  with  indignation,  and  his  fea- 
tures expressed  their  former  energy  and  decision.  "  0 
world!  0  men!  "  he  exclaimed,  "  how  pitiful,  how  mean 
you  are!  You  know,  Bertram,  how  much  good  I  have 
done  these  men.  I  have  protected  them  as  a  friend 
in  the  time  of  their  need  and  affliction.  I  saved  them 
from  punishment  and  shame.  In  return  they  trumpet 
forth  my  misfortunes,  and  that  which  might  have  been 
altered  by  the  considerate  silence  of  my  friends,  they  cry 
aloud  to  all  the  world,  and  thereby  precipitate  my  fall." 

"It  is,  then,  really  true?"  asked  Bertram,  turning 
pale.  "  You  are  in  danger?  " 

"  To-day  is  the  last  term  for  the  payment  of  the  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars,  which  I  have  to  pay  our 
king,  for  the  town  of  Leipsic.  Our  largest  banking- 
houses  have  bought  up  these  claims  of  the  king  against 
me." 

"But  that  is  not  your  own  debt.  You  only  stood 
good  for  Leipsic." 

"  That  I  did;  and  as  Leipsic  cannot  pay,  I  must." 

"But  Leipsic  can  assume  a  portion  of  the  debt  at 
least." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  327 

"  Perhaps  so,"  said  Gotzkowsky.  "  I  have  sent  a 
courier  to  Leipsic,  and  look  for  his  return  every  hour. 
But  it  is  not  that  alone  which  troubles  me/'  continued 
he,  after  a  pause.  "  It  would  be  easy  to  collect  the  five 
hundred  thousand  dollars.  The  new  and  unexpected 
ordinance  from  .the  mint,  which  renders  uncurrent  the 
light  money,  deprives  me  of  another  half  million.  When 
I  foresaw  Leipsic's  insolvency,  I  had  negotiated  alone  with 
Hamburg  for  half  a  million  of  light  money.  But  the 
spies  of  the  Jews  of  the  mint  discovered  this,  and  when 
my  money  was  in  the  course  of  transmission  from  Ham- 
burg they  managed  to  obtain  a  decree  from  the  king 
forbidding  immediately  the  circulation  of  this  coin. 
In  this  way  my  five  hundred  thousand  dollars  became 
good  for  nothing." 

"Horrible!"  cried  Bertram;  "have  you,  then,  not 
endeavored  to  save  a  portion  of  this  money?  " 

"Yes,  indeed,"  cried  Gotzkowsky,  with  a  bitter 
laugh,  "  I  have  tried.  I  wished  to  send  fifty  thousand 
dollars  of  my  money  to  the  army  of  the  allies,  to  see  if 
it  would  be  current  there;  but  Ephraim  had  foreseen 
this,  too,  and  obtained  a  decree  forbidding  even  the  tran- 
sit of  this  money  through  the  Prussian  dominions.  This 
new  and  arbitrary  law  was  only  published  after  my  money 
had  left  Hamburg,  and  I  had  grounds  to  hope  that  I 
would  not  be  prevented  from  bringing  it  through  the 
Prussian  dominions,  for  it  was  concealed  in  the  double 
bottom  of  a  wagon.  But  avarice  has  sharp  eyes,  and  the 
spies  who  were  set  upon  all  my  actions  succeeded  in  dis- 
covering this  too.  The  wagon  was  stopped  at  the  gates 
of  Berlin,  and  the  money  was  discovered  where  they 
knew  it  was  beforehand,  under  this  false  bottom.  But 
who  do  you  think  it  was,  Bertram,  who  denounced  me 
in  this  affair?  You  would  never  guess  it — the  chief 


328  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

burgomaster,  President  von  Kircheisen!  He  stood  him- 
self at  the  gate,  watched  for  the  wagon,  and  searched 
until  he  found  the  money." 

"  Kircheisen!  The  same,  father,  whom  you  saved 
from  death  when  the  Eussians  were  here?  " 

"  The  same,  my  son;  you  shake  your  head  incredu- 
lously. Eead  for  yourself."  He  took  from  his  writing- 
table  a  large  paper  provided  with  the  official  seal,  and 
handed  it  to  Bertram.  "  Eead  for  yourself,  my  son. 
It  is  an  order  from  the  minister  Von  Finkenstein." 

It  was  written  thus:  "  The  half  of  the  sum  is  awarded 
by  the  king  to  President  von  Kircheisen,  as  detective 
and  informer." 

"  A  worthy  title,  '  detective  and  informer,' "  con- 
tinued Gotzkowsky.  "  By  Heaven,  I  do  not  envy  him 
it!  But  now  you  shall  know  all.  It  does  me  good  to 
confide  to  you  my  sorrows — it  lightens  my  poor  heart. 
And  now  I  have  another  fear.  You  have  heard  of  my 
speculation  in  the  Eussian  magazines?  " 

"  Of  the  magazines  which  you,  with  De  Neuf ville 
and  the  bankers  Moses  and  Samuel,  bought?"  asked 
Bertram. 

"  Yes,  that  is  it.  But  Eussia  would  not  enter  into 
the  bargain  unless  I  made  myself  responsible  for  the 
vhole  sum." 

"And  you  did  so?"  asked  Bertram,  trembling. 

"  I  did.  The  purchase-money  has  been  due  for  four 
months.  My  fellow-contractors  have  not  paid.  If 
Russia  insists  upon  the  payment  of  this  debt,  I  am 
mined." 

"  And  why  do  not  Samuel  and  Moses  pay  their 
part?" 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer  immediately,  but  when 
he  did,  his  features  expressed  scorn  and  contempt: 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  329 

"  Moses  and  Samuel  are  no  longer  obliged  to  pay,  be- 
cause yesterday  they  declared  themselves  insolvent." 

Bertram  suppressed  with  effort  a  cry  of  anger.,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "  He  is  lost,"  he  mut- 
tered to  himself,  "  lost  beyond  redemption,  for  he  founds 
his  hopes  on  De  Neufville,  and  he  knows  nothing  of  his 
unfortunate  fate." 


CHAPTER   VII. 

CONFESSIONS. 

WHEN  Bertram  raised  his  head  again,  Gotzkowsky 
was  standing  near  him,  looking  brightly  and  lovingly 
into  his  sorrowful,  twitching  face.  It  was  now  Gotz- 
kowsky who  had  to  console  Bertram,  and,  smiling  quiet- 
ly and  gently,  he  told  him  of  the  hopes  which  still  re- 
mained to  him. 

"  De  Neufville  may  return,"  he  said.  "  He  has  only 
gone  to  the  opening  of  the  bank  at  Amsterdam,  and  if 
he  succeeds  in  collecting  the  necessary  sum  there,  and 
returns  with  it  as  rapidly  as  possible  to  Berlin,  I  am 
saved." 

"  But  if  he  does  not  come?  "  asked  Bertram  with 
a  trembling  voice,  fixing  his  sad  looks  penetratingly  on 
Gotzkowsky. 

"  Then  I  am  irretrievably  lost,"  answered  Gotzkow- 
sky, in  a  loud,  firm  voice. 

Bertram  stepped  quickly  up  to  him,  and  threw  him- 
self in  his  arms,  folding  him  to  his  breast  as  if  to  protect 
him  against  all  the  danger  which  threatened  him.  "  You 
must  be  saved!"  cried  he,  eagerly;  "it  is  not  possible 


330  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

that  you  should  fall.     You  have  never  deserved  such  a 
misfortune." 

"  For  that  very  reason  I  fear  that  I  must  suffer  it. 
If  I  deserved  this  disgrace,  perhaps  it  never  would  have 
happened  to  me.  The  world  is  so  fashioned,  that  what 
we  deserve  of  good  or  evil  never  happens  to  us." 

"  But  you  have  friends;  thousands  are  indebted  to 
your  generosity,  and  to  your  ever-ready,  helping  hand. 
There  is  scarcely  a  merchant  in  Berlin  to  whom,  some 
time  or  other,  you  have  not  been  of  assistance  in  his 
need! " 

Gotzkowsky  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  re- 
plied with  a  proud  air:  "  My  friend,  it  is  precisely  those 
who  owe  me  gratitude,  who  are  now  trying  to  ruin  me. 
The  very  fact  of  having  obliged  them,  makes  them  my 
bitter  enemies.  Gratitude  is  so  disagreeable  a  virtue, 
that  men  become  implacably  hostile  to  those  who  impose 
it  on  them." 

"  When  you  speak  thus,  my  father,"  said  Bertram, 
glowing  with  noble  indignation,  "  you  condemn  me, 
too.  You  have  bound  me  to  everlasting  gratitude,  and 
yet  I  love  you  inexpressibly  for  it." 

"  You  are  a  rare  exception,  my  son,"  replied  Gotz- 
kowsky, sadly,  "  and  I  thank  God,  who  has  taught  me  to 
know  you." 

.  ."You  believe,  then,  in  me?"  asked  Bertram,  look- 
ing earnestly  in  his  eyes. 

"  I  believe  in  you,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  solemnly,  offer- 
ing him  his  hand. 

"  Well,  then,  my  father,"  cried  Bertram,  quickly  and 
gladly,  "in  this  important  moment  let  me  make  an 
urgent  request  of  you.  You  call  me  your  son;  give  me. 
then,  the  rights  of  a  son.  Allow  me  the  happiness  of 
offering  you  the  little  that  I  can  call  mine.  My  fortune 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  331 

is  not,  to  be  sure,  sufficient  to  save  you,  but  it  can  at  least 
be  of  service  to  you.  Father,  I  owe  you  every  thing. 
It  is  yours — take  it  back." 

"  Never!  "  interrupted  Gotzkowsky. 

But  Bertram  continued  more  urgently:  "  At  least 
consider  of  it.  When  you  founded  the  porcelain  factory, 
you  made  me  a  partner  in  this  business,  and  I  accepted  it, 
although  I  had  nothing  but  what  belonged  to  you. 
When  the  king,  a  year  ago,  bought  the  factory  from  you, 
you  paid  me  a  fourth  of  the  purchase-money,  and  gave 
me  thirty  thousand  dollars.  I  accepted  it,  although  I 
had  not  contributed  any  part  of  the  capital." 

"  You  are  mistaken,  my  son.  You  forget  that  you 
contributed  the  capital  of  your  knowledge  and  genius." 

"  One  cannot  live  on  genius,"  cried  Bertram,  impa- 
tiently; "and  with  all  my  knowledge  I  might  have 
starved,  if  you  had  not  taken  me  by  the  hand." 

Gotzkowsky  would  have  denied  this,  but  Bertram 
continued  still  more  pressingly:  "  Father,  if  I  were, 
indeed,  your  son,  could  you  then  deny  me  the  right  of 
falling  and  being  ruined  with  you?  Can  you  deny  your 
son  the  right  of  dividing  with  you  what  is  his?  " 

"  N"o!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  "  from  my  son  I  could  de- 
mand the  sacrifice,  but  it  is  not  only  a  question  of  earthly 
possessions,  it  is  a  question  of  my  most  sacred  spiritual 
good,  it  is  the  honor  of  my  name.  Had  I  a  son,  I  would 
exact  of  him  that  he  should  follow  me  unto  death,  so 
that  the  honor  of  my  name  might  be  saved." 

"  Well,  then,  let  me  be,  indeed,  your  son.  Give  me 
your  daughter! " 

Gotzkowsky  stepped  back  in  astonishment  and  gazed 
at  Bertram's  noble,  excited  countenance.  "  Ah!  "  cried 
he,  "  I  thank  you,  Bertram;  you  are  a  noble  man!  I 
understand  you.  You  have  found  out  the  sorrow  which 


332  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

gnaws  most  painfully  at  my  heart;  that  Elise,  by  my 
failure,  becomes  a  beggar.  You  wish  most  nobly  to  as- 
sist her  and  protect  her  from  want." 

"  No,  father,  I  desire  her  for  her  own  sake — because 
I  love  her!  I  would  wish  to  be  your  son,  in  order  to  have 
the  right  to  give  up  all  for  you,  and  to  work  for  you. 
During  your  whole  life  you  have  done  so  much  for 
others;  now  grant  me  the  privilege  of  doing  some- 
thing for  you.  Give  me  your  daughter;  let  me  be  your 
son." 

Gotzkowsky  was  silent  for  some  minutes,  then  looked 
at  Bertram  sadly  and  sorrowfully.  "  You  know  that  this 
has  always  been  the  wish  of  my  heart.  But  what  I  have 
longed  for,  for  so  many  years,  that  I  must  now  refuse. 
I  dare  not  drag  you  down  in  my  misfortune,  and  even  if 
I  were  weak  enough  to  yield  to  your  request,  I  cannot 
sacrifice  the  happiness  of  my  daughter  to  my  welfare. 
Do  you  believe,  Bertram,  that  Elise  loves  you?  " 

"  She  is  kind  to  me,  and  is  anxious  for  my  welfare — 
that  is  enough,"  said  Bertram,  sadly.  "  I  have  learned 
for  many  a  long  year  to  renounce  all  claim  to  her  love." 

"  But  if  she  loves  another?  I  fear  her  heart  is  but 
too  true,  and  has  not  forgotten  the  trifler  who  destroyed 
her  happiness.  Ah!  when  I  think  of  this  man,  my 
heart  trembles  with  anger  and  grief.  In  the  hour  of 
death  I  could  forgive  all  my  enemies,  but  the  hatred 
toward  this  man,  who  has  so  wantonly  trifled  with  the 
faith  and  love  of  my  child,  that  hatred  I  will  take  with 
me  into  the  grave — and  yet,  I  fear,  Elise  has  not  forgot- 
ten him." 

"This  dead  love  does  not  give  me  any  uneasiness," 
said  Bertram. '  "  Four  years  have  passed  since  that  un- 
lucky day." 

"And  for  four  years  have  I  been  faithful  in  my 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  333 

hatred  to  him.     May  not  Elise  have  been  as  constant  in 
her  love?  " 

Bertram  sighed  and  drooped  his  head.  "  It  is  too 
true,  love  does  not  die  so  easily."  Then  after  a  pause  he 
added  in  a  determined  voice:  "  I  repeat  my  request — 
give  me  your  daughter!  " 

"  You  know  that  she  does  not  love  you,  and  yet  you 
still  desire  her  hand?" 

"  I  do.  I  have  confidence  enough  in  her  and  in  my- 
self to  believe  Elise  will  not  refuse  it  to  me,  but  will 
freely  make  this  sacrifice,  when  she  learns  that  you  will 
only  allow  me,  as  your  son,  the  privilege  of  sharing  my 
little  fortune  with  you.  For  her  love  to  you,  she  will 
give  me  her  hand,  and  invest  me  with  the  rights  of  a  son 
toward  you." 

"  Never!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  vehemently.  "  She 
must  never  be  informed  of  that  of  which  we  have  been 
speaking.  She  does  not  forebode  the  misfortune  which 
threatens  her.  I  have  not  the  courage  to  tell  her,  and 
why  should  I?  When  the  terrible  event  happens,  she 
will  learn  it  soon  enough,  and  if  it  can  be  averted,  why 
then  I  can  spare  her  this  unhappiness.  For  my  child 
I  wish  a  clear,  unclouded  sky;  let  me  bear  the  clouds 
and  storms.  That  has  always  been  the  object  of  my  life, 
and  I  will  remain  faithful  to  it  to  the  last." 

"  You  refuse  me,  then?  "  asked  Bertram,  pained. 

"  No,  my  son.  I  accept  you,  and  that  which  you 
have  given  me  in  this  hour,  the  treasure  of  your  love; 
that  I  can  never  lose.  That  remains  mine,  even  if  they 
deprive  me  of  all  else." 

He  opened  his  arms,  and  Bertram  threw  himself 
weeping  on  his  breast.  Long  did  they  thus  remain, 
heart  to  heart,  in  silence;  but  soul  spoke  to  soul  without 
words  and  without  expressions  of  love. 


334:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

When  Gotzkowsky  raised  himself  from  Bertram's 
embrace,  his  countenance  was  calm,  and  almost  cheerful. 
"  I  thank  you,  my  son;  you  have  given  me  new  courage 
and  strength.  Now  I  will  preserve  all  my  composure. 
I  will  humble  my  pride,  and  apply  to  those  who  in  for- 
mer times  professed  gratitude  toward  me.  The  Council 
of  Berlin  have  owed  me  twenty  thousand  ducats  since 
the  time  that  the  Eussians  were  here,  and  I  had  to  travel 
twice  in  the  service  of  the  town  to  Petersburg  and  War- 
saw. These  accounts  have  never  been  asked  for.  I 
will  make  it  my  business  to  remind  the  Council  of  them, 
as  in  the  days  of  their  need  they  swore  eternal  gratitude 
to  me.  Come,  Bertram,  let  us  see  whether  these  worship- 
ful magistrates  are  any  better  than  other  men,  and 
whether  they  have  any  recollection  of  those  sacred  prom- 
ises which  they  made  me  in  the  days  when  they  needed 
help,  and  when  misfortune  threatened  them." 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

THE   RUSSIAN   PRINCE. 

BEFORE  the  door  of  the  first  hotel  in  Berlin  stood  a 
travelling-carriage  covered  with  dust.  The  team  of  six 
post-horses,  and  the  two  servants  on  the  coach-box, 
showed  that  it  was  a  personage  of  quality  who  now  hon- 
ored the  hotel  with  a  visit;  and  it  was  therefore  very 
natural  that  the  host  should  hurry  out  and  open  the  car- 
riage door  with  a  most  respectful  bow. 

A  very  tall,  thin  man  descended  from  the  carriage 
with  slow  and  solemn  dignity,  and  as  he  entered  the 
house  gravely  and  in  silence,  his  French  valet  asked  the 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  335 

host  whether  he  had  rooms  elegant  enough  to  suit  the 
Prince  Stratimojeff. 

The  countenance  of  the  host  expanded  into  a  glowing 
smile;  he  snatched  the  candlestick  hastily  from  the 
hands  of  the  head  butler,  and  flew  up  the  steps  himself 
to  prepare  the  room  of  state  for  the  prince. 

The  French  valet  examined  the  rooms  with  a  critical 
eye,  and  declared  that,  though  they  were  not  worthy  of 
his  highness,  yet  he  would  condescend  to  occupy  them. 

The  prince  still  remained  silent,  his  travelling-cap 
drawn  deep  down  over  his  face,  and  his  whole  figure 
concealed  in  the  ample  robe  of  sable  fur,  which  reached 
to  his  feet.  He  motioned  to  the  host  with  his  hand  to 
leave  the  room;  then,  in  a  few  short  words,  he  ordered 
his  valet  to  see  to  supper,  and  to  have  it  served  up  in  an 
adjoining  room,  and  as  at  that  moment  a  carriage  drove 
up  to  the  house,  he  commissioned  him  to  see  whether 
it  was  his  suite.  The  valet  stated  that  it  was  his  high- 
ness's  private  secretary,  his  man  of  business,  and  his 
chaplain. 

"  I  will  not  see  them  to-day — they  may  seek  their 
own  pleasure,"  said  the  prince,  authoritatively.  "  Tell 
them  that  our  business  begins  to-morrow.  But  for  you, 
Guillaume,  I  have  an  important  commission.  Go  to  the 
host  and  inquire  for  the  rich  banker,  John  Gotzkowsky; 
and  when  you  have  found  where  he  lives,  enter  into 
further  conversation,  and  get  some  information  about 
the  circumstances  of  this  gentleman.  I  wish  to  learn, 
too,  about  his  family;  ask  about  his  daughter — if  she  be 
still  unmarried,  and  whether  she  is  now  in  Berlin.  In 
short,  find  out  all  you  can." 

The  courteous  and  obedient  valet  had  left  the  room 
some  time,  but  Prince  Stratimojeff  still  stood  motionless, 
his  eyes  cast  on  the  ground,  and  muttering  some  unin- 


336  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

telligible  words.  Suddenly,  with  an  impatient  move- 
ment, he  threw  his  furred  rohe  from  his  shoulders,  and 
cast  his  head-gear  far  into  the  room. 

"Air!  air!  I  suffocate!  "  cried  he.  "  I  feel  as  if  this 
town  lay  on  my  chest  like  a  hundred-pound  weight,  and 
that  I  have  to  conceal  myself  like  a  criminal  from  the 
eyes  of  men." 

He  threw  his  cloak  open,  and  took  a  long  and  deep 
breath. 

What  was  it,  then,  that  so  strangely  excited  Prince 
Stratimojeff,  and  shook  his  very  hones  as  with  an  ague? 
It  was  the  memory  of  former  days;  it  was  the  painful  and 
damning  voice  of  Conscience  which  tormented  him. 
What  reason  had  he  to  inquire  after  Gotzkowsky  the 
banker,  and  his  daughter?  How!  Had  the  heart  of 
Count  Feodor  von  Brenda  become  so  hardened,  that 
when  he  returned  to  Berlin  he  should  not  long  to  hear 
of  her  whom  he  had  once  so  shamefully  betrayed? 

It  was  indeed  himself.  Colonel  Count  Feodor  von 
Brenda  had  become  transformed  into  the  Prince  Strati- 
mojeff. Four  short  years  -had  passed,  but  what  desola- 
tion had  they  not  caused  in  his  inner  life! — four  years 
of  dissolute  pleasure,  of  mad,  enervating  enjoyment; 
four  bacchanalian  years  of  sensual  dissipation  and  ex- 
travagance; four  years  passed  at  the  court  of  two  Rus- 
sian empresses!  In  these  four  years  Elizabeth  had  died; 
and  for  a  few  days  the  unfortunate  Peter  III.  had  worn 
the  imperial  crown.  But  it  had  proved  too  heavy  for 
him;  and  his  great  consort,  Catharine,  full  of  compas- 
sion and  Eussian  humanity  for  him,  had  sought  to 
lighten  his  load!  Only,  in  her  too  great  zeal,  she  had 
taken  not  only  his  crown,  but  his  head,  and  changed  his 
prison  for  a  grave. 

The  Guards  shouted  for  the  new  empress  as  they  had 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  337 

done  for  the  old.  In  the  presence  of  their  beautiful 
young  sovereign  they  remembered  with  delight  the 
graciousness  of  her  predecessor,  who,  in  the  fulness  of 
her  kindness  and  power,  had  made  princes  of  the  subal- 
terns, and  great  lords  of  the  privates. 

Why  should  not  Catharine  resemble  Elizabeth  in  that 
respect,  and  show  favor  to  the  splendid  soldiers  of  the 
Guards?  She  was  merciful.  She  was  a  gracious  mis- 
tress to  all  her  subjects,  but  especially  so  to  the  handsome 
men  of  her  empire.  And  the  Count  von  Brenda  was  a 
very  handsome  man.  He  had  been  the  favorite  of 
Elizabeth,  why  should  he  not  also  be  the  favorite  of 
Catharine?  The  former  had  treated  him  with  motherly 
kindness,  for  she  was  old;  but  Catharine  was  young,  and 
in  her  proud  breast  there  beat  an  ardent  heart — a  heart 
that  was  so  powerful  and  large,  that  it  had  room  for 
more  than  one  lover. 

The  young  count  had  been  for  some  short  months 
the  declared  darling  of  the  empress,  and  the  whole  world 
did  homage  to  him,  and  looked  upon  it  as  a  matter  of 
course  that  Catharine  should  make  him  Prince  Strati- 
mojeff,  and  bestow  on  him  not  only  orders  and  titles, 
but  lands  and  thousands  of  slaves. 

"What  a  mad,  intoxicating,  joyous  life  was  his!  How 
all  the  world  envied  the  handsome,  rich  prince,  sur- 
rounded by  the  halo  of  imperial  favor!  But  neverthe- 
less a  cloud  lay  always  on  his  brow,  and  he  plunged  into 
the  sea  of  pleasure  like  one  ill  of  fever,  who  seeks 
something  to  cool  the  heat  which  is  consuming  him. 
He  threw  himself  into  the  arms  of  dissipation,  as  the 
criminal  condemned  to  execution,  who  in  the  intoxica- 
tion of  champagne  revels  away  the  last  hours  of  life  in 
order  to  banish  the  thought  that  Death  stands  behind 
him,  reaching  forth  his  hand  to  seize  him. 


338  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Thus  did  the  prince  strive  in  the  wild  excitement  of 
pleasure  to  kill  thought  and  deaden  his  heart.  But 
there  would  come  quiet  hours  to  remind  him  of  the 
past,  and,  at  times,  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  he  would 
start  up  from  his  couch,  as  if  he  had  heard  a  scream, 
a  single  heart-piercing  cry,  which  rang  through  his  very 
soul. 

But  this  scream  existed  only  in  his  dreams,  those 
dreams  in  which  Elise's  pale,  sad  face  appeared,  and 
made  him  tremble  before  her  indignant  and  despair- 
ing grief.  Near  this  light  figure  of  his  beloved  appeared 
another  pallid  woman,  whose  sorrowful  looks  tortured 
him,  and  struck  his  soul  with  anguish.  He  thought  he 
saw  his  wife,  the  late  Countess  Lodoiska  von  Sandomir, 
who,  with  weeping  eyes,  demanded  of  him  her  murdered 
happiness,  her  youth,  her  life. 

She  was  dead;  she  had  died  of  grief,  for  she  had  felt 
that  the  man  for  whom  she  had  sacrificed  every  thing — 
her  youth,  her  honor,  and  her  duty — despised  her,  and 
could  never  forgive  her  for  having  cheated  him  into  tak- 
ing her  for  his  wife.  She  died  the  victim  of  his  contempt 
and  hatred.  Not  suddenly,  not  as  with  a  lightning-stroke, 
did  his  contempt  kill,  but  slowly  and  steadily  did  it 
pierce  her  heart.  She  bore  the  torture  for  one  desolate, 
disconsolate  year,  and  then  she  died  solitary  and  for- 
saken. No  loving  hand  dried  the  death-sweat  on  her 
cold  forehead;  no  pitying  lips  whispered  words  of  love 
and  hope  to  her;  yet  on  her  death-bed,  her  heart  was 
still  warm  toward  her  husband,  and  even  then  she  blessed 
him. 

A  letter  written  by  her  trembling  hand  in  her  last 
hours,  full  of  humble,  earnest  love,  of  forgiving  gentle- 
ness, which  her  husband  the  prince  found  on  his  writ- 
ing-table, as  well  as  another,  directed  to  Elise  Gotz- 


THE  MERCHANT  <5F  BERLIN.  339 

kowsky,  and  enclosed  in  the  first,  bore  witness  to  this 
fact. 

Lodoiska  had  loved  her  husband  sufficiently  to  be 
aware  of  the  cause  of  his  wild  and  extravagant  life,  to 
know  that  in  the  bottom  of  his  heart  he  was  suffering 
from  the  only  true  love  of  his  life — his  love  for  Elise; 
and  that  all  the  rest  was  only  a  mad  and  desperate  effort 
to  deaden  his  feelings  and  smother  his  desire. 

Elise's  image  followed  him  everywhere;  and  his  love 
for  her,  which  might  have  been  the  blessing  of  a  good 
man's  life,  had  been  a  cruel  curse  to  that  of  a  guilty  one. 
In  the  midst  of  the  wild  routs,  the  private  orgies  of  the 
imperial  court,  her  image  rose  before  him  from  these 
waves  of  maddening  pleasure  as  a  guardian  angel,  hush- 
ing him  often  into  silence,  and  stopping  the  wanton  jest 
on  his  quivering  lips. 

At  times  during  these  feasts  and  dances,  he  was 
seized  with  a  boundless,  unspeakable  dread,  a  torturing 
anxiety.  He  felt  inexpressibly  desolate,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  his  lost,  his  wasted  existence  haunted  him, 
while  it  seemed  as  if  an  inner  voice  was  whispering — 
"  Go,  flee  to  her!  with  Elise  is  peace  and  innocence.  If 
you  are  to  be  saved,  Elise  will  save  you." 

But  he  had  not  the  strength  to  obey  the  warning 
voice  of  his  heart;  he  was  bound  in  gilded  fetters,  and, 
even  if  love  were  absent,  pride  and  vanity  prevented  him 
from  breaking  these  bonds.  He  was  the  favorite  of  the 
young  empress,  and  the  great  of  the  empire  bowed  down 
before  him,  and  felt  themselves  happy  in  his  smile,  and 
honored  by  the  pressure  of  his  hand.  But  every  thing 
is  changeable.  Even  the  heart  of  the  Empress  Catharine 
was  fickle. 

One  day  the  Prince  Stratimojeff  received  a  note  from 
his  imperial  mistress,  in  which  she  intrusted  him  with 


340  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

a  diplomatic  mission  to  Germany,  and  requested  him,  on 
account  of  the  urgency  of  the  occasion,  to  start  imme- 
diately. 

Feodor  understood  the  hidden  meaning  of  this  ap- 
parently gracious  and  loving  letter;  he  understood  that 
he  had  fallen  into  disgrace — not  that  he  had  committed 
any  error  or  crime.  It  was  only  that  Count  Orloff  was 
handsomer  and  more  amiable  than  himself,  or  at  least 
that  he  seemed  so  to  the  empress.  Therefore  Feodor's 
presence  was  inconvenient  to  her;  for  at  that  time  in 
the  commencement  of  her  reign,  Catharine  had  still 
some  modesty  left,  and  the  place  of  favorite  had  not  yet 
become  an  official  position  at  court,  but  only  a  public 
secret.  As  yet,  she  avoided  bringing  the  discharged 
favorite  in  contact  with  the  newly  appointed  one,  and 
therefore  Feodor  had  to  be  removed  before  Count  Alexis 
Orloff  could  enter  on  his  duties. 

Prince  Feodor  Stratimojeff  crushed  the  perfumed 
imperial  note  in  his  hand,  and  muttered  through  his  set 
teeth:  "  She  has  sacrificed  me  to  an  Orloff!  She  wishes 
to  send  me  away,  that  she  may  more  securely  play  this 
new  farce  of  love.  Very  well;  I  will  go,  but  not  to  return 
to  be  deceived  anew  by  her  vows  of  love  and  glances  of 
favor.  No!  let  this  breach  be  eternal.  Catharine  shall 
feel  that,  although  an  empress,  she  is  a  woman  whom  I 
despise.  Therefore  let  there  be  no  word  of  farewell,  not 
even  the  smallest  request.  She  bids  me  go,  and  I  go. 
And  would  it  not  seem  as  if  Fate  pointed  out  to  me  the 
way  I  am  to  go?  Is  it  not  a- strange  chance  that  Catha- 
rine should  choose  me  for  this  mission  to  Germany?  " 

It  was  indeed  a  singular  accident  that  the  empress 
unintentionally  should  have  sent  back  her  discharged 
favorite  to  the  only  woman  whom  he  had  ever  loved.  Ho 
was  sent  as  ambassador  extraordinary  to  Berlin,  to  press 


THE  MERCHANT  OP   BERLIN.  341 

more  urgently  her  claims  on  a  Prussian  banker,  to  bring 
up  before  the  Prussian  department  for  foreign  affairs 
the  merchant  John  Gotzkowsky  with  regard  to  her  de- 
mand for  two  millions  of  dollars;  and,  in  case  he  refused 
to  pay  it,  to  try  in  a  diplomatic  way  whether  Prussia 
could  not  be  induced  to  support  this  demand  of  the 
empress,  and  procure  immediate  payment. 

This  was  the  mission  which  Catharine  had  confided 
to  Prince  Stratimojeff,  who,  when  he  determined  to 
undertake  it,  said  to  himself:  "  I  will  take  vengeance  on 
this  proud  woman  who  thinks  to  cast  me  off  like  a  toy  of 
which  she  has  tired;  I  will  show  her  that  my  heart  is 
unmoved  by  her  infidelity;  I  will  present  to  her  my 
young  wife,  whose  beauty,  youth,  and  innocence  will 
cause  her  to  blush  for  shame." 

Never  had  he  been  so  fascinating  and  lively,  so  bril- 
liant and  sparkling  with  wit,  as  on  the  evening  preceding 
his  departure.  His  jests  were  the  boldest  and  freest; 
they  made  even  the  empress  blush,  and  sent  her  blood 
hot  and  bounding  through  her  veins.  The  court,  that 
would  have  been  delighted  to  have  seen  the  long-envied 
and  hated  favorite  now  abashed  and  humbled  before  his 
newly-declared  successor,  remarked  with  astonishment 
and  bitter  mortification  that  the  humiliation  was 
changed  into  a  triumph;  for  the  empress,  charmed  by 
his  amiability  and  wit,  seemed  to  turn  her  heart  again 
toward  him,  and  to  entreat  him  with  the  tenderest 
looks  to  forgive  her  faithlessness.  She  had  already 
forgotten  the  unfortunate  embassy  which  was  to  re- 
move Feodor  from  her  court,  when  he  himself  came 
to  remind  her  of  it. 

While  all  countenances  were  still  beaming  with  de- 
light over  a  precious  Ion  mot  which  Feodor  had  just  per- 
petrated, and  at  which  the  empress  herself  had  laughed 


34:2  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

aloud,  he  stepped  up  to  her  and  requested  her  blessing 
on  his  voyage  to  C4ermany,  which  he  was  going  to  com- 
mence that  night. 

Catharine  felt  almost  inclined  to  withdraw  her  or- 
ders and  request  him  to  remain,  but  she  was  woman 
enough  to  be  able  to  read  pride  and  defiance  in  his  face. 
She  therefore  contented  herself  with  wishing  him  a 
speedy  return  to  his  duty.  Publicly,  in  the  presence  of 
the  whole  court  and  her  new  favorite,  she  afforded  Prince 
Stratimojeff  a  fresh  triumph:  she  bade  him  kneel,  and 
taking  a  golden  chain  to  which  her  portrait  was  at- 
tached, she  threw  the  links  around  his  neck.  Kissing 
him  gently  on  the  forehead,  with  a  gracious  smile  full 
of  promise,  she  said  to  him  only,  "  Au  revoir!  " 


CHAPTEE   IX. 

OLD   LOVE NEW    SOKROW. 

ELISE  was  in  her  room.  Her  face  expressed  a  quiet, 
silent  resignation,  and  her  large  dark  eyes  had  a  dreamy 
but  bright  look.  She  sat  in  an  easy-chair,  reading,  and 
whoever  had  seen  her  with  her  high,  open  forehead  and 
,'  calm  looks,  would  have  thought  her  one  of  those  happy 
and  fortunate  beings  whom  Heaven  had  blessed  with 
eternal  rest  and  cheerful  composure,  who  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  corroding  poison  of  passionate  grief. 
No  trace  of  the  storm  which  had  raged  through  her  life 
could  be  seen  on  her  countenance.  Her  grief  had  eaten 
inwardly,  and  only  her  heart  and  the  spirit  of  her  youth 
had  died;  her  face  had  remained  young  and  handsoipe. 
The  vigor  of  her  youth  had  overcome  the  grief  of  her 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  343 

spirit,  and  her  cheeks,  although  colorless  and  transparent 
in  their  paleness,  were  still  free  from  that  sallow,  sickly 
pallor,  which  is  the  herald  of  approaching  dissolution. 
She  was  apparently  healthy  and  young,  and  only  sick  and 
cold  at  heart.  Perhaps  she  only  needed  some  sunbeams 
to  warm  up  again  her  chilled  heart,  only  some  gleam  of 
hope  to  make  her  soul  young  again,  and  strong  and 
ready  once  more  to  love  and  to  suffer.  She  had  never 
forgotten,  never  ceased  to  think  of  the  past,  nor  of  him 
whom  she  had  loved  so  unspeakably,  whom  her  soul 
could  not  let  go. 

The  memories  of  the  past  were  the  life  of  the  present 
to  her.  The  tree  in  the  garden  which  he  had  admired, 
the  flowers  he  had  loved  and  which  since  then  had  four 
times  renewed  their  bloom,  the  rustling  of  the  fir-trees 
which  sounded  from  the  wall,  all  spoke  of  him,  and 
caused  her  heart  to  beat,  she  knew  not  whether  with 
anger  or  with  pain.  Even  now,  as  she  sat  in  her  room, 
her  thoughts  and  fancies  were  busy  with  him.  She  had 
been  reading,  but  the  book  dropped  from  her  hand. 
From  the  love-scenes  which  were  described  in  it  her 
thoughts  roamed  far  and  wide,  and  awakened  the  dreama 
and  hopes  of  the  past. 

But  Elise  did  not  like  to  give  herself  up  to  these 
reveries,  and  at  times  had  a  silent  horror  even  of  her 
own  thoughts.  She  did  not  like  to  confess  to  herself 
that  she  still  hoped  in  the  man  who  had  betrayed  her. 
She  had,  as  it  were,  a  sympathizing  pity  with  herself; 
she  threw  a  veil  over  her  heart,  to  hide  from  herself 
that  it  still  quivered  with  pain  and  love.  Only  at  times, 
in  the  quiet  and  solitude  of  her  chamber,  she  ventured 
to  draw  aside  the  veil,  to  look  down  into  the  depths  of 
her  soul,  and,  in  agonizing  delight,  in  one  dream  blend 
together  the  present  and  the  past.  She  leaned  back  in 


344  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

her  chair,  her  large  dark  eyes  fixed  on  vacancy.  Some 
passage  in  the  book  had  reminded  her  of  her  own  sad 
love,  had  struck  on  her  heart  like  the  hammer  of  a  bell, 
and  in  response  it  had  returned  but  one  single  note,  the 
word  "  Feodor." 

"  Ah,  Feodor!  "  she  whispered  to  herself,  but  with  a 
shudder  at  the  name,  and  a  blush  suffused  her  otherwise 
pale  cheeks  for  a  moment.  "  It  is  the  first  time  my 
lips  have  spoken  his  name,  but  my  heart  is  constantly 
repeating  it  in  hopeless  grief,  and  in  my  dreams  he  still 
lives.  I  have  accepted  my  fate;  to  the  world  I  have 
separated  from  him;  to  myself,  never!  Oh,  how  mys- 
terious is  the  heart!  I  hate  and  yet  I  love  him."  She 
covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  sat  long  silent  and 
motionless.  A  noise  at  the  door  aroused  her.  It  was  only 
Marianne,  her  maid,  who  came  to  announce  that  a  strange 
gentleman  was  outside,  who  earnestly  requested  to  speak 
to  her.  Elise  trembled,  she  knew  not  why.  A  prophetic 
dread  seized  her  soul,  and  in  a  voice  scarcely  audible  she 
asked  the  name  of  her  visitor. 

"  He  will  not  give  his  name,"  answered  the  maid. 
"  He  says  the  name  is  of  no  consequence.     He  had  a 
letter  to  deliver  from  the  Countess  Lodoiska,  of  St. 
'  Petersburg." 

Elise  uttered  a  cry,  and  sprang  from  her  seat — she 
knew  all.  Her  heart  told  her  that  he  was  near.  It 
must  be  himself.  She  felt  as  if  she  must  hasten  to  her 
father  for  protection  and  safety;  but  her  feet  refused  to 
carry  her.  She  trembled  so,  that  she  was  obliged  to 
hold  on  to  the  arm  of  a  chair  to  keep  herself  from  falling. 
She  motioned  with  her  hand  to  deny  him  admittance, 
but  Marianne  did  not  understand  her;  for,  opening  the 
door,  she  invited  the  stranger  in,  and  then  left  him. 

And  now  they  stood  in  presence  of  each  other,  silent 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  345 

and  breathless — Elise  trembling  with  excitement  and 
bitter  feeling,  wrestling  with  her  own  emotion,  and 
deeply  abashed  by  the  meeting.  Both  uttered  an  in- 
ward prayer — but  how  different  were  their  two  aspira- 
tions! 

"  Now,  God  or  devil!  "  thought  Feodor,  "  give  my 
words  power,  lend  enchantment  to  my  tongue,  that  L 
may 'win  Elise! " 

Elise  prayed  to  herself:  "  Have  mercy  on  me,  0  God! 
Take  this  love  from  me,  or  let  me  die." 

In  sad  silence  these  two,  so  long  separated,  stood 
opposite  to  each  other — both  hesitating,  he  knowing  that 
he  was  guilty,  she  ashamed  of  the  consciousness  of  her 
love.  But  finally  he  succeeded  in  breaking  the  silence. 
He  whispered  her  name,  and  as  she,  alarmed  and  shud- 
dering, looked  up  at  him,  he  stretched  out  his  arms  im- 
ploringly toward  her.  And  then  she  felt,  thought,  knew 
nothing  but  him.  She  uttered  a  cry,  and  rushed  for- 
ward to  throw  herself  in  his  arms.  But  suddenly  she 
stopped.  Her  dream  was  at  an  end,  and  now  awaking 
from  the  first  ecstasy  of  seeing  him  again,  she  collected 
herself,  and  stood  before  him  in  the  whole  pride  and 
dignity  of  her  offended  honor.  She  found  courage  to 
sacrifice  her  own  heart,  and,  with  cold,  constrained 
manner,  bowing  to  him,  she  asked,  "  Colonel  von  Brenda, 
whom  do  you  wish  to  see?  " 

The  prince  sighed  deeply,  and  let  his  arms  drop. 
"  It  is  over,"  said  he;  "  she  no  longer  loves  me!  " 

Low  as  these  words  had  been  spoken,  Elise  had 
seized  their  purport,  and  they  touched  her  to  the  quick. 
"What  do  you  wish?"  she  continued. 

"  Nothing!  "  said  he,  despondently.  "  I  have  made 
a  mistake.  I  expected  to  find  a  faithful  heart,  a  woman 
like  an  angel,  ready  in  the  hour  of  meeting  to  forget  all 


346  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

else,  and  take  refuge  in  this  heart;  to  forgive,  and,  with 
her  blessing,  to  wipe  out  the  curse  of  my  existence.  This 
is  what  I  sought.  But  God  is  just,  and  I  did  not  de- 
serve such  happiness.  I  submit." 

"  Oh,  my  God!  "  said  Elise  to  herself,  "  it  is  the  same 
voice  which  once  charmed  me."  She  no  longer  found 
strength  in  herself  to  bid  him  go.  She  would  have  given 
her  life  blood  to  be  able  always  to  be  thus  near  him. 

"  This  time,  young  lady,"  said  Feodor,  "  I  come  only 
as  a  messenger,  the  executor  of  the  will  of  one  who  is 
dead."  He  took  a  letter  from  his  bosom  and  handed  it 
to  Elise.  "  I  bring  you,"  he  said  solemnly,  "  the  last 
will  of  my  wife,  Countess  Lodoiska." 

"  She  is  no  longer  alive?  "  cried  Elise,  and  involun- 
tarily an  almost  joyful  tone  pervaded  her  voice. 

This  did  not  escape  the  prince.  "  I  will  win  her," 
said  he  to  himself.  His  eyes  shone  brighter,  his  counte- 
nance looked  prouder,  and  his  heart  beat  higher  with 
triumphant  joy.  Elise  had  taken  the  letter,  and  still 
held  it  in  her  hand.  "  Will  you  not  read  it?  "  asked  he, 
gently,  and  her  heart  trembled  at  the  pleading  tone  of 
his  voice. 

"  Yes,  I  will  read  it,"  she  answered,  as  if  awaking 
from  a  dream,  and  breaking  the  seal  hastily. 

The  prince  fixed  his  sharp,  piercing  eyes  on  her,  and 
seemed  to  wish  to  read  in  her  looks  her  inmost  thoughts, 
and  feeling  them  favorable  to  him,  he  approached  still 
closer  to  her. 

The  letter  was  short  and  hastily  written,  but  every 
word  entered  her  soul  and  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 
It  ran  thus: 

"  My  dear  Elise,  when  you  receive  this  letter  I  shall 
be  no  more,  and  the  heart  which  has  suffered  so  much 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  347 

will  be  at  rest.  But  when  I  have  found  repose  in  the 
grave,  do  you  fulfil  my  trust.  I  leave  you  the  dearest 
legacy  that  I  possess.  I  give  you  back  your  property, 
the  heart  and  love  of  Feodor,  which  never  ceased  to 
belong  to  you.  I  never  have  been  able  to  win  this  love 
to  myself.  He  gave  me  his  hand,  his  heart  remains 
yours,  and  that  is  killing  me.  Take  it  then,  it  is  my 
legacy  to  you;  and  if  you  accept  it  my  purified  spirit  will 
bless  your  reunion.  LODOISKA." 

The  letter  dropped  from  her  hand;  completely  over- 
powered by  deep  and  solemn  emotions,  she  sank  in  her 
chair,  and  hid  her  tears  with  her  hands.  Feodor  felt 
that  she  was  again  his,  that  he  had  regained  his  sway 
over  her.  He  rushed  toward  her,  falling  at  her  feet, 
and  passionately  snatching  her  hands  from  her  face,  he 
exclaimed,  "  Elise!  in  this  moment  her  spirit  is  hovering 
over  us.  She  blesses  this  love  which  she  has  already  for- 
given. Oh,  if  you  only  knew  what  I  have  suffered  for 
you,  you  would,  at  least,  not  be  a/igry  with  me.  You 
would  pardon  me  for  the  sake  of  what  I  have  under- 
gone." 

"Have  I  then  not  suffered  also?"  she  asked,  turn- 
ing her  face,  covered  with  tears,  toward  him. 

"  Oh!  leave  me  here  at  your  feet,"  he  continued. 
"  Look  upon  me  as  a  poor  pilgrim  who  has  wandered  to 
the  holy  Sepulchre  in  order  to  cleanse  his  heart  of  its 
sins  at  the  sanctuary  by  sincere  repetitance  and  prayers 
for  forgiveness.  You  are  my  sanctuary,  to  you  my  heart 
bends;  the  poor  pilgrim  has  come  to  you  to  confess  and 
be  shrived  before  he  dies.  "Will  you,  my  Madonna,  hear 
him?  May  I  tell  you  what  I  have  endured,  how  much 
I  have  suffered?" 

"  Speak,"  she  said,  half  conscious,  but  eager!}  listen- 


348  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

ing  to  the  music  of  his  voice.  "  Tell  me  what  you  have 
suffered,  that  I  may  forget  my  own  sufferings  when  I 
gave  you  up." 

"  Oh!  "  he  continued,  with  a  shudder,  "  I  shall  never 
forget  that  fearful  moment  when  I  became  aware  of  the 
deception,  and  discovered  that  it  was  not  you,  but  Lodo- 
iska,  whom  I  held  in  my  arms.  A  raving  madness  seized 
me,  which  threatened  my  own  life.  Lodoiska  turned 
aside  the  dagger,  and  pronounced  your  name.  That 
name  recalled  me  to  life,  to  the  knowledge  of  my  crime. 
I  submitted  to  the  punishment  which  I  had  merited,  and 
which  you  had  imposed  upon  me.  I  led  Lodoiska  to  the 
altar,  at  which  I  had  hoped  to  see  you.  I  made  her  my 
wife,  and  my  heart  pronounced  your  name,  while  my 
lips  bound  me  to  her.  It  was  a  terrible  hour,  a  fearful 
agony  raged  within  me,  and  it  has  never  left  me  since. 
It  was  there,  when  Lodoiska  pressed  me  to  her  heart. 
It  was  present  in  the  tumult  of  battle.  Then,  however, 
when  death  raged  around  me,  when  destruction  thun- 
dered from  the  enemy's  cannon,  then  I  became  cheerful, 
and  the  pang  left  me  as  I  rushed  amid  the  enemy's  ranks. 
But  even  death  itself  retreated  before  me — I  found 
on  the  battle-field  only  honor  and  fame,  but  not  the 
object  for  which  I  fought,  not  death.  I  lived  to  suffer 
and  to  expiate  my  crime  toward  you,  Elise.  But 
one  hope  sustained  me,  the  hope  one  day  to  fall  at 
your  feet,  to  clasp  your  knees,  and  to  sue  for  forgive- 
ness." 

Completely  overcome  by  his  own  passionate  descrip- 
tion, he  bowed  his  head  on  her  knees,  and  wept  aloud. 
He  had  succeeded  in  rousing  his  own  sympathy;  he 
believed  in  his  own  grief.  .  He  had  so  feelingly  played 
the  part  of  a  repentant  sinner,  an  ardent  lover,  that  for 
a  moment  probability  and  reality  had  become  blended 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  349 

in  one,  and  he  felt  himself  thoroughly  possessed  by 
crushing  repentance. 

But  Elise  believed  in  him.  His  voice  sounded  like 
music  in  her  ear,  and  every  ( fibre  of  her  heart  thrilled 
and  quivered.  The  past  with  its  griefs  and  sorrows 
was  gone  forever,  he  was  once  more  there,  with  no 
stranger  to  come  between  them,  and  she  only  felt  that 
she  loved  him  without  bounds. 

He  embraced  her  knees,  looking  pleadingly  up  in 
her  face.  "  Elise,  forgive  me,"  cried  he;  "  say  but  one 
word,  *  Pardon,'  and  I  will  go  away  in  silence,  and  never 
again  dare  to  approach  you." 

Elise  had  no  longer  power  to  withstand  him.  She 
opened  her  arms,  and  threw  them  with  passionate  tender- 
ness around  his  neck.  "  Feodor,  love  does  not  forgive, 
it  loves,"  she  cried  with  unspeakable  rapture,  and  tears 
of  delight  burst  from  her  eyes. 

Feodor  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and  sprang  up  to  draw 
her  to  his  breast,  to  cover  her  face  with  kisses,  to  whisper 
words  of  delight,  of  tenderness,  of  passionate  love,  in  her 
listening  ear.  "  Oh!  now  all  is  right  again — now  you  are 
again  mine.  These  four  years  are  as  if  they  had  not  been. 
It  was  all  a  mournful  dream — and  we  are  now  awake. 
Now  we  know  that  we  love  each  other,  that  we  belong  to 
each  other,  forever.  Come,  Elise,  it  is  the  same  hour 
which  then  called  us  to  the  altar.  Come,  the  priest 
waits.  For  four  long  years  have  I  hoped  for  this  hour. 
Come,  my  beloved." 

He  threw  his  strong  arm  around  her  and  raised  her  to 
his  breast  to  draw  her  forth  with  him.  As  Elise  drew 
herself  gently  back,  he  continued  still  more  passionately: 
"  I  will  not  let  you  go,  for  you  are  mine.  You  have  be- 
trothed yourself  to  me  for  life  or  death.  Come,  the 
priest  is  waiting,  and  to-day  shall  you  be  my  wife.  This 
23 


350  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

time  no  unfriendly  hand  shall  impose  itself  between  us, 
and  Lodoiska  no  longer  lives." 

"But  my  father  lives/'  said  Elise,  as  earnestly  and 
proudly  she  freed  herself  from  Feeder's  arms.  "  With- 
out his  consent  I  do  not  leave  this  threshold.  It  was  for 
that  the  Lord  punished  us.  My  father's  blessing  was  not 
upon  our  love,  and  I  had  sinned  grievously  against  him. 
Now,  it  is  expiated,  and  Fate  is  appeased.  Let  us  go 
hand  in  hand  to  my  father,  and  ask  his  blessing  on  our 
love,  that  love  which  has  remained  undiminished 
through  so  many  years  of  grief." 

"  I  submit  to  you.  I  will  obey  your  will  in  every 
thing.  But  will  not  your  father  reject  me?  I  feel  that 
he  must  hate  me  for  the  tears  I  have  caused  you  to  shed." 

"  He  will  love  you  when  he  sees  that  you  have  taught 
me  to  smile  once  more,"  said  she  gently.  "  Come  to 
my  father." 

She  wished  to  draw  him  along  with  her.  But  his 
consciousness  of  guilt  held  him  back.  He  wanted  the 
daring  courage  to  face  this  man  whom  he  had  been  sent 
to  ruin;  and  involuntarily  he  shrank  back  from  his  own 
deeds.  I  dare  not  go  before  him  so  suddenly  and  unpre- 
pared," said  he  hesitatingly. 

"  Then  allow  me  to  prepare  him  for  your  presence." 

"And  if  he  denies  his  sanction?" 

"He  will  not  do  it." 

"  He  has  sworn  never  to  allow  you  to  marry  a  Eus- 
sian." 

"  Oh,  that  was  long  ago,"  said  she,  smiling,  "  when 
Russia  was  our  enemy.  Now  we  are  at  peace.  The 
bloody  streams  of  discord  are  dried  up,  and  an  angel  of 
peace  rules  over  all  countries.  Even  my  father  will  feel 
his  influence,  and  make  peace  with  you  and  me." 

Feodor   did   not    answer    immediately.     He    stood 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.       35  \ 

thoughtful  and  contemplative,  weighing  the  necessary 
and  unavoidable,  and  considering  what  he  should  do. 
One  thing  only  was  clear.  Neither  Elise  nor  Gotzkow- 
sky  must  be  allowed  to  suspect  on  what  extraordinary 
mission  his  empress  had  sent  him  thither.  Only  when 
Elise  was  irrevocably  bound  to  him,  when  she  was  his 
without  recall,  when  Gotzkowsky  had  given  his  consent 
to  their  union,  then  would  he  dare  to  disclose  it  to  him. 
It  was  necessary,  above  all,  to  postpone  the  negotiations 
about  the  Russian  demands  for  a  day,  and  therefore  he 
only  gave 'his  agents  his  instructions,  and  imposed  on 
them  silence  and  inactivity  for  a  day  longer.  The  prin- 
cipal thing,  however,  was  to  convince  Elise  and  her 
father  that  their  union  should  suffer  no  delay,  because 
he  was  only  allowed  to  remain  a  few  hours.  He  put  his 
arm  around  Elise's  slender  waist  and  pressed  her  to  his 
heart.  "  Listen  to  me,  my  beloved;  my  time  has  been 
but  sparingly  dealt  out  to  me.  I  have  come  on  with 
courier  horses,  so  as  to  allow  me  more  leisure  on  my  re- 
turn with  you.  But  to-day  we  must  leave,  for  the  army 
is  on  the  frontier,  equipped  and  ready  for  war.  Only 
out  of  special  favor  did  the  empress  allow  me  a  short 
leave  of  absence,  to  fetch  my  wife.  In  her  clemency  she 
has  done  what  she  was  able  to  do,  and  I  must  now  obey 
her  orders  to  return  speedily,  if  I  do  not  wish  to  bring 
her  anger  down  upon  me.  That  nothing  might  pre- 
vent or  delay  us,  I  have  brought  a  chaplain  of  our  Church 
with  me,  to  bless  our  union.  You  see,  my  beloved,  that 
every  thing  is  ready,  and  all  that  is  wanting  is  the 
wreath  of  myrtle  in  your  hair." 

"And  the  blessing  of  my  father,"  she  replied  sol- 
emnly. 

Feeder's  brow  darkened  and  an  angry  expression 
flashed  across  his  countenance.  Elise  did  not  perceive  it, 


352  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

for,  in  her  noble  forgetfulness  of  self,  she  had  leaned  her 
head  on  his  breast,  and  all  doubt  and  distrust  were  alien 
to  her  free  and  confiding  love.  The  love  of  a  woman 
is  of  divine  nature;  it  forgives  all,  it  suffers  all;  it  is  as 
strong  in  giving  as  in  forgiving.  Every  woman  when 
she  loves  is  an  inspired  poetess;  the  divine  frenzy  has 
seized  her,  and  poetic  utterances  of  ecstasy  issue  from  her 
trembling  lips.  This  poor  girl,  too,  had  become  in- 
spired. Confidingly  happy,  she  reposed  on  the  breast 
of  the  man  whom  she  had  never  ceased  to  love,  whom  she 
had  blest  in  the  midst  of  her  bitterest  tears,  whom  she 
had  prayed  for,  earnestly  entreating  God  to  have  mercy 
on  him. 

"  Do  you  go  to  your  father,"  said  Feodor,  after  a 
pause.  "  Pray  for  his  consent  and  his  blessing  on  both 
of  us — I  hasten  to  prepare  every  thing.  Tell  your  father 
that  my  whole  life  shall  be  spent  in  the  endeavor  to  re- 
deem every  tear  you  have  shed  for  me  with  a  smile;  that 
I  will  love  him  as  a  son  to  whom  he  has  given  the  dearest 
treasure  of  life,  his  Elise." 

He  pressed  her  to  his  heart  and  kissed  her  forehead. 
Elise  raised  her  face  from  his  breast,  and  smiled  on  him 
with  loving  emotion.  But  he  placed  his  hands  over  her 
eyes;  he  was  not  callous  enough  to  be  able  to  bear  those 
innocent,  yielding,  tender  looks. 

"  I  must  be  gone,"  he  said.  "  But  this  shall  be  our 
last  separation,  and  when  I  return,  it  shall  be  to  lead  you 
to  the  altar.  In  an  hour,  dearest,  you  must  be  ready. 
At  the  end  of  that  time,  I  will  come  to  take  you  to  St. 
Petersburg,  and  present  you  at  the  empress's  court  as  my 
bride,  the  Princess  Stratimojeff." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  an  air  of  triumph,  to  see 
what  impression  his  words  would  have  on  her.  He  had 
expected  to  prepare  a  pleasurable  surprise  for  her  with 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  353 

the  princely  title — to  see  her  blush  with  proud  satisfac- 
tion. But  Elise  felt  neither  elevated  nor  honored  by  the 
high  rank.  What  did  she  care  whether  Feodor  was  a 
prince  or  a  poor  officer,  so  that  he  only  loved  her,  and 
would  never  again  forsake  her? 

She  replied,  with  some  surprise,  "  Princess  Stratimo- 
jeff !  What  does  that  mean?  " 

"  For  three  months,"  said  he  with  a  proud  smile,  "  I 
have  been  Prince  Stratimojeff.  The  empress  gave  me 
this  title.  The  world  calls  me  prince,  but  you — you  will 
call  me  your  Feodor?  " 

"  Oh,"  said  she  feelingly,  "  my  heart  called  you  so 
when  you  did  not  hear  me." 

"  Well,  then,  go  wind  the  wreath  of  myrtle  in  your 
hair,  and  wait  for  me.  In  an  hour  I  will  return." 

He  hastened  to  the  door,  but  on  the  threshold  he 
turned  to  send  a  farewell  greeting  to  her.  Their  eyes 
met  and  rested  on  each  other,  and  suddenly  a  deep,  in- 
describable feeling  of  grief  came  over  him.  It  seemed 
to  him  as  if  he  would  never  see  her  again;  as  if  the 
threshold  once  crossed,  Elise  was  lost  to  him  forever. 
Once  again  he  returned,  and  folded  her  passionately  in 
his  arms,  and,  completely  overpowered  by  his  painful 
presentiments,  he  bowed  his  head  on  her  shoulder,  and 
wept  bitterly.  He  then  tore  himself  loose.  "  Fare- 
well! "  he  cried,  but  his  voice  sounded  hoarse  and  rough 
— "  farewell!  in  an  hour  I  will  return  for  you.  Be  pre- 
pared, do  not  keep  me  waiting  in  vain.  Farewell!  " 


554:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTER   X. 

THE   MAGISTKACY   OP   BERLIN". 

GOTZKOWSKY  had  conquered  his  proud  heart;  he  had 
left  his  house  to  apply  to  those  whom  he  had  benefited 
and  saved  in  the  days  of  their  need  and  distress,  and  who 
had  then  avowed  him  everlasting  gratitude.  He  resolved 
now,  reluctantly  and  with  deep  humiliation,  rather  to 
remind  them  of  those  days  than  to  ask  of  them  any  fa- 
vors or  assistance  beyond  the  payment  of  their  debts  to 
him. 

First  he  went  to  the  ober-burgomaster,  President 
Kircheisen ;  to  the  man  whom  he  had  saved  from  death, 
who  had  clung  to  him,  and,  when  he  had  found  his 
speech  again,  had  vowed  with  tear:  that  he  would 
be  forever  grateful  to  him,  and  would  bless  the  ar- 
rival of  the  hour  in  which  he  could  prove  it  to  him  by 
deeds. 

This  hour  had  now  arrived,  but  Herr  von  Kircheisen 
did  not  bless  it;  on  the  contrary,  he  cursed  it.  He  was 
standing  at  the  window  of  his  ground  floor  when  Gotz- 
kowsky  passed  by.  Their  eyes  met.  Gotzkowsky's  were 
clear  and  penetrating;  Kircheisen's  were  cast  down,  as 
he  stepped  back  from  the  window.  He  only  had  time 
to  tell  the  servants  that  he  was  not  at  home  for  any  one, 
whoever  it  might  be,  when  the  bell  rang,  and  Gotzkow- 
sky  inquired  for  Herr  von  Kircheisen. 

"  Not  at  home,  sir.'* 

"  Not  at  home!  but  I  saw  him  just  this  moment 
standing  at  the  window." 

"It  must  have  been  a  mistake,  sir.  The  president 
has  just  gone  to  the  Council-chamber." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  355 

"  Very  well.  I  will  go  to  the  town-hall,"  said  Gotz- 
kowsky, as  he  left  the  house. 

Passing  by  the  window  he  looked  in  again.  This 
time,  however,  Kircheisen  was  not  standing  before  the 
sashes,  but  at  the  side,  ensconced  behind  the  curtain, 
he  was  spying  Gotzkowsky  through  the  window.  As  he 
saw  him  passing  by,  pale  of  countenance,  but  erect  and 
unbent,  he  felt  involuntarily  a  feeling  of  remorse,  and 
his  conscience  warned  him  of  his  unpaid  debt  toward  the 
only  man  who  came  to  his  rescue.  But  he  would  not 
listen  to  his  conscience,  and  with  a  dark  frown  he  threw 
back  his  head  with  contempt. 

"  He  is  a  bankrupt — I  have  nothing  to  do  with 
him! "  So  saying,  he  retired  to  his  study,  and  in  obe- 
dience to  a  natural  instinct,  he  opened  his  strong  box, 
and  refreshed  himself  with  a  look  at  the  thousands  which 
he  had  earned  from  Gotzkowsky  as  "  detective  and  in- 
former." And  now  his  conscience  no  longer  reproached 
him;  the  sight  of  the  shining  money  lulled  it  into  a  gen- 
tle slumber. 

In  the  meanwhile  Gotzkowsky  continued  his  toil- 
some and  humiliating  journey.  He  met  men  who  for- 
merly bent  humbly  to  the  earth  before  him,  yet  who 
scarcely  greeted  him  now.  Others,  again,  as  they  passed 
him, whispered, with  a  malicious  smile,  "  Bankrupt!  "  As 
he  came  to  the  corner  of  a  street,  he  met  the  valiant  editor 
of  the  Vossian  Gazette,  who  was  coming  round  from  the 
other  side.  As  they  met,  he  jostled  Gotzkowsky  rather 
roughly,  yet  Mr.  Kretschmer  did  not  think  it  worth 
while  to  excuse  himself,  but  pulling  his  hat  over  his  face 
he  walked  on  with  a  dark  and  scornful  look.  As  Gotz- 
kowsky passed  the  houses,  he  could  hear  the  windows 
rattle,  and  he  knew  that  it  was  his  former  good  friends, 
who  were  drawing  back  when  they  saw  him  coming,  and 


356  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

who,  after  he  had  passed,  opened  the  windows  again  to 
look  after  him,  to  laugh  at  and  mock  him.  It  was  an 
intellectual  running-  of  the  gantlet,  and  Gotzkowsky's 
heart  bled  from  the  blows,  and  his  feet  were  tired  to 
death.  What  had  he  then  done  to  burden  himself  with 
the  cruelty  and  contumely  of  the  world?  Had  he  not 
been  benevolent  and  kind,  full  of  pity  and  humanity, 
obliging  to  every  one?  Had  he  not  always  shown  him- 
self ready  to  serve  every  one,  and  never  requested  nor 
desired  services  in  return?  Therein  lay  his  fault  and 
his  crime. 

He  had  been  independent.  He  had  never  sought  the 
favor  of  any  man,  but,  trusting  solely  to  himself,  had 
always  relied  on  his  own  strength.  And  now  mankind 
wished  to  make  him  feel  that  he  had  mortified  them  by 
his  self-sufficiency — for  small  natures  never  forgive  one 
who  dares  to  be  independent  of  others,  and  finds  his 
source  of  honor  in  himself.  And  this  crime  Gotzkowsky 
had  been  guilty  of.  What  he  was,  he  had  made  himself. 
He  had  owed  nothing  to  protection,  nothing  to  hypoc- 
risy or  flattery,  eye-service,  or  cringing.  Only  by  the 
strength  and  power  of  his  own  genius  had  he  elevated 
himself  above  the  world  which  he  ruled. 

And  now  that  he  was  down,  it  was  but  natural  that 
the  world  should  fall  upon  him,  tear  him  to  pieces  with 
its  venomous  fangs,  to  enjoy  his  torture,  and  joyfully  to 
witness  the  lowering  of  pride  and  independence.  Gotz- 
kowsky arrived  at  the  town-hall  and  slowly  ascended  the 
steps.  How  often  had  he  gone  this  same  road  in  answer 
to  the  pressing  cry  for  help  which  the  magistrate  would 
utter  in  his  distress!  How  often  had  he  mounted  those 
steps  to  give  his  advice,  to  lend  his  energy,  his  money, 
and  his  credit  to  these  gentlemen  of  the  Council! 

This  day  the  doors  were  not  thrown  open  to  him; 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  357 

the  beadle  did  not  bow  down  to  the  earth  before  him, 
but  proudly  and  with  erect  head  stepped  up  to  him  and 
bade  him  wait  in  the  antechamber  until  he  had  an- 
nounced him  to  the  assembled  Council.  He  had  to  wail 
long,  but  finally  the  doors  opened  and  he  was  ad- 
mitted. There  sat  the  aldermen  and  councillors,  and 
the  burgomaster,  just  as  they  had  when,  in  their  need 
and  distress,  they  had  appealed  to  Gotzkowsky  for  ad- 
vice and  assistance — just  as  they  had  when,  in  solemn 
session,  they  determined  to  present  him  with  a  silver 
laurel- wreath  as  an  honorable  testimonial. 

Only  the  chief  burgomaster  was  absent.  Herr  von 
Kircheisen  was  at  home,  enjoying  the  sight  of  the  money 
he  had  won  from  Gotzkowsky.  This  day  they  did  not 
receive  him  as  a  counsellor  or  friend,  but  more  like  a  de- 
linquent. No  one  rose  to  greet  him — no  one  offered  him 
a  seat!  They  knew  that  he  came  to  ask  for  something. 
Why,  then,  should  they  be  polite  to  him,  as  he  was  only  a 
petitioner  like  all  other  poor  people?  In  the  mean  time 
Gotzkowsky  did  not  seem  to  be  aware  of  the  alteration. 
Smiling,  and  with  a  firm,  proud  step  he  walked  to  a 
chair  and  sat  down. 

After  a  pause  the  burgomaster  asked  him  churlishly 
what  his  business  was.  He  drew  out  a  parcel  of  papers, 
and  laying  them  on  the  table,  said,  "  I  have  brought  my 
accounts." 

A  panic  seized  the  worshipful  gentlemen  of  the 
Council,  and  they  sat  petrified  in  their  seats. 

"  Your  worships  have  forgotten  my  claims,"  said 
Gotzkowsky  quickly.  "However,  that  I  can  easily  under- 
stand, as  the  accounts  are  somewhat  old.  It  is  now  four 
years  since  I  have  had  the  honor  of  having  the  Council 
of  Berlin  as  my  debtor;  since  I  thrice  performed  the 
perilous  journey  to  Konigsberg  and  Warsaw  in  order  to 


358  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

negotiate  the  war  contribution  in  the  name  of  the  town. 
At  that  time,  too,  I  was  obliged,  in  the  service  of  the 
Council,  to  take  with  me  many  valuable  presents.  I 
may  enumerate  among  them  the  diamond-set  staff  for 
General  von  Fermore,  and  the  snuff-box,  with  the  portrait 
of  the  empress,  surrounded  by  brilliants,  which  I  deliv- 
ered to  the  General  Field-Marshal  Count  Butterlin,in  the 
name  of  the  magistracy  and  town  of  Berlin.  But,  gen- 
tlemen, you  will  find  the  accounts  of  all  these  things 
here." 

The  gentlemen  of  the  Council  did  not  answer  him; 
they  seized  upon  the  papers  hastily,  and  turned  them 
over,  and  looked  into  them  with  stern  and  sullen  eyes. 
Not  a  word  was  said,  and  nothing  was  heard  but  the 
rustling  of  the  papers,  and  the  low  muttering  of  one  of 
the  senators  adding  the  numbers,  and  verifying  the  cal- 
culation. Gotzkowsky  rose,  and  walked  to  the  window. 
Raising  his  looks  to  heaven,  his  countenance  expressed 
all  the  pain  and  bitterness  to  which  his  soul  almost  suc- 
cumbed. Ah!  he  could  have  torn  the  papers  out  of 
the  hand  of  this  miserable,  calculating,  reckoning  sena- 
tor, and  with  pride  and  contempt  have  thrown  them  in 
his  face.  But  he  thought  of  his  daughter,  and  the  honor 
of  his  name.  He  had  to  wait  it  out,  and  bend  his  head 
in  submission. 

At  last  the  burgomaster  laid  the  papers  aside,  and 
turned  scowlingly  toward  Gotzkowsky.  The  latter 
stepped  up  to  the  table  with  a  smile,  making  a  vow  to 
himself  that  he  would  remain  quiet  and  patient. 

"  Have  you  read  them,  gentlemen  ?  "  he  asked. 

"We  have  read  them,"  answered  the  burgomaster 
roughly,  "  but  the  Council  cannot  admit  that  it  owes  you 
any  thing." 

"No?"  cried  Gotzkowsky;  and  then,  allowing  him- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  359 

self  to  be  overcome  by  a  feeling  of  bitterness — "  I  be- 
lieve you.  Those  in  authority  seldom  take  cognizance 
of  what  they  owe,  only  what  is  owing  to  them." 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  said  the  first  councillor  with 
solemn  dignity,  "  we  know  very  well  that  we  owe  you 
thanks  for  the  great  services  you  have  rendered  the 
town." 

Gotzkowsky  broke  out  into  a  loud,  ironical  laugh. 
"Do  you  remember  that?  I  am  glad  that  you  have 
not  forgotten  it." 

"  It  is  true,"  continued  the  councillor,  in  a  tone  of 
conciliation,  "  at  the  request  of  the  magistracy  you  took 
charge  of  the  affairs  of  the  town.  You  travelled  to  St. 
Petersburg  to  see  the  empress;  twice  did  you  go  to  War- 
saw to  see  General  Fermore,  and  twice  to  Saxony  to 
visit  the  king.  You  see  the  Council  knows  how  much  it 
is  indebted  to  you." 

"  And  we  are  cheerfully  willing  to  be  grateful  to 
you,"  interrupted  the  burgomaster,  "  and  to  serve  you 
when  and  in  what  manner  we  can,  but  these  debts  we 
cannot  acknowledge." 

Gotzkowsky  looked  at  him  in  dismay,  and  a  deep 
glow  suffused  his  cheek.  "You  refuse  to  pay  them?" 
he  asked,  faintly. 

"It  pains  us  deeply  that  we  cannot  recognize  these 
claims.  You  must  abate  somewhat  from  them  if  we 
are  to  pay  them,"  answered  the  burgomaster  rudely. 

"Do  you  dare  to  propose  this  to  me?"  cried  Gotz- 
kowsky, his  eyes  flashing,  his  countenance  burning  with 
anger  and  indignation.  "  Is  this  the  way  you  insult  the 
man  to  whom  four  years  ago  on  this  very  spot  you  swore 
eternal  gratitude?  In  those  days  I  sacrificed  to  you  my 
repose,  the  sleep  of  my  nights;  for,  when  the  town  was 
threatened  with  danger  and  alarm,  there  was  no  Council, 


360  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

no  authority  in  existence,  for  you  were  base  cowards, 
and  abjectly  begged  for  my  good  offices.  With  tears  did 
you  entreat  me  to  save  you.  I  left  iny  house,  my  family, 
my  business,  to  serve  you.  At  the  risk  of  my  life,  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  I  undertook  these  journeys.  You 
did  not  consider  that  Russian  bayonets  threatened  me, 
that  I  risked  health  and  life.  You  thought  only  of  your- 
selves. I  have  not  put  down  in  the  account  the  sleep- 
less nights,  the  trouble  and  anxiety,  the  privation  and 
hardships  which  I  suffered.  I  do  not  ask  any  money  or 
recompense  for  my  services.  I  only  ask  that  I  may  be 
paid  back  what  I  actually  expended;  and  you  have  the 
assurance  to  refuse  it?  " 

"  No,  we  do  not,"  said  the  burgomaster,  quite  un- 
moved by  Gotzkowsky's  noble  excitement.  "  We  do  not 
refuse  payment;  we  only  desire  a  reduction  of  the 
amounts." 

"  You  wish  to  cheapen  and  bargain  with  me,"  said 
Gotzkowsky  with  a  hoarse  laugh.  "  You  take  me  for  a 
chapman,  who  measures  out  his  life  and  services  by  the 
yard;  and  you  wish  to  pay  me  for  mine  by  the  same 
measure.  Go,  most  sapient  gentlemen;  I  carry  on  a 
wholesale  trade,  and  do  not  cut  off  yards.  That  I  leave 
to  shopkeepers,  to  souls  like  yours." 

The  burgomaster  rose  up  proud  and  threateningly 
from  his  seat.  "  Do  you  dare  to  insult  the  Council?  " 

"  No,  the  Council  of  Berlin  insult  themselves  by  their 
own  deeds.  They  dare  to  chaffer  with  me!  " 

"  And  they  have  a  right  to  do  so,"  cried  the  burgo- 
master, quite  beside  himself  with  rage.  "  Who  asked 
you  to  play  the  great  lord  in  our  name,  and  distribute 
royal  presents — diamonds  and  gold  snuff-boxes?  You 
could  have  done  it  much  more  cheaply.  The  Russian  is 
not  so  high-priced.  But  it  was  your  pleasure  to  be 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  361 

magnificent  at  our  expense,  and  to  strut  about  as  a 
bountiful  gentleman." 

"  Silence!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  in  such  a  command- 
ing tone  that  the  burgomaster  was  struck  dumb,,  and 
sank  back  in  his  chair.  Gotzkowsky  said  no  more.  He 
took  the  accounts  from  the  table,  and,  casting  a  look  of 
auger  and  contempt  on  the  worthy  gentlemen,  tore  the 
papers  in  pieces,  and  threw  the  scraps  at  their  feet.  "  I 
am  paid!  "  he  said,  proudly,  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room. 

One  of  the  town  councillors  hastened  after  him,  and 
held  him  back.  "  You  are  too  hasty :  we  may  yet  agree." 

"  No !  "  said  Gotzkowsky,  striving  to  free  himself. 
"  I  do  not  chaffer  and  bargain  for  my  right." 

The  other  held  him  tight.  "  But  the  Council  are 
not  averse  to  paying  you,  if  you — 

"  If  I  will  only  traffic  with  you,  is  it  not  so?  "  inter- 
rupted Gotzkowsky.  "  Let  me  go;  we  have  done  with 
each  other." 

"  You  will  regret  having  repulsed  the  Council,"  said 
the  burgomaster,  threateningly. 

"  I  never  regret  an  action  when  my  honor  is  satis- 
fied," said  Gotzkowsky,  with  proud  contempt;  and  then, 
without  honoring  the  worthy  gentlemen  with  another 
look,  he  left  the  hall,  and  returned  into  the  street. 


362  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

CHAPTER   XI. 

THE   JEWS   OP   THE    MINT. 

HERE  ITZIG  was  a  very  pious  and  devout  Jew.  He 
kept  the  Sabbath  strictly  after  the  custom  of  his  an- 
cestors. He  was  charitable  to  the  poor;  and  no  Jew 
beggar  ever  left  his  door  without  a  gift. 

He  sat  in  his  room,  performing  his  morning  devo- 
tions, and  so  deeply  was  he  immersed  therein,  that  he  did 
not  hear  a  repeated  knocking  at  the  door  until  a  low, 
gentle  voice  whispered,  "  Good-morning,  Herr  Itzig!  " 

Itzig  first  finished  his  prayer;  for  all  the  world  he 
would  not  have  broken  off  before  the  end  of  it:  "  Be 
gracious  and  merciful  to  us,  Jehovah,  and  incline  us  to 
be  compassionate  and  helpful  to  all  who  approach  us 
with  supplication,  even  as  we  desire  that  thou  shouldst  be 
to  us."  And  now  the  pious  Jew  closed  his  prayer-book, 
and  turned  slowly  around. 

That  pale,  bent  man,  who  greeted  him  with  a  sorrow- 
ful smile — could  it  possibly  be — could  it  be  John  Gotz- 
kowsky,  the  celebrated  banker,  the  honored  and  bright 
hero  of  the  Exchange,  the  money-king  before  whom  all 
Europe  bowed  down? 

An  expression  of  malicious  joy  stole  over  Itzig's  face; 
but  he  suppressed  it  immediately,  for  the  last  words  of 
his  prayer  still  floated  around  his  lips,  and  somewhat 
purified  them.  "  Ah! "  said  he,  in  a  friendly  tone,  as 
he  stepped  toward  Gotzkowsky,  stretching  out  both 
his  hands  to  him,  "  the  great  and  powerful  John  Gotz- 
kowsky does  me  the  honor  to  visit  me.  What  joy  for 
my  humble  house! " 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  misled  by 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  363 

this  seeming  politeness.  He  observed  him  with  sharp 
and  penetrating  eyes,  and  then  proudly  said:  "  Listen, 
Itzig;  let  us  be  candid  with  each  other.  You  know 
the  reports  which  are  current  about  me  in  the  city  and 
on  the  Bourse." 

"  I  know  them,  but  do  not  believe  them,"  cried  Itzig, 
with  an  altered,  earnest  mien.  "  Yes,  I  know  these  re- 
ports, and  I  know  too  what  they  are  worth.  They  are 
a  speculation  of  Ephraim,  that  your  notes  may  be  de- 
preciated, that  he  may  buy  them  in  at  a  low  rate.  I  know 
that  Gotzkowsky  is  a  rich  man;  and  a  rich  man  has 
judgment,  and  whoever  has  judgment  is  prudent — does 
not  venture  much,  nor  stand  security  for  other  people." 

"  I  have  perhaps  less  of  this  judgment  than  you 
think,"  said  Gotzkowsky.  "  It  may  be  that  I  have  stood 
security." 

"Then  you  will  certainly  know  how  to  pay?"  said 
Itzig,  with  a  forced  laugh. 

"  But  how  if  I, cannot  pay?  "  said  Gotzkowsky,  sadly. 

Itzig  stepped  back,  and  gazed  at  him  horrified. 

"If  I  cannot  pay,"  continued  Gotzkowsky,  impres- 
sively; "  if  I  am  unable  to  pay  half  a  million  for  Leipsic, 
another  half  million  for  the  Russian  claims,  after  having 
lost  the  same  amount  yesterday  by  the  new  treasury  ordi- 
nance— what  would  you  say  to  that,  Itzig?  " 

Itzig  listened  to  him  with  increasing  terror,  and 
gradually  his  features  assumed  an  expression  of  hatred 
and  savage  rage.  When  Gotzkowsky  had  finished,  he 
raised  his  clasped  hands  to  heaven,  as  if  imploring  the 
wrath  of  God  on  the  head  of  the  sinner.  "  My  God!  sir, 
are  you,  then,  going  to  fail?  " 

Gotzkowsky  seized  his  hand,  and  looked  into  his  quiv- 
ering face  with  an  expression  of  intense  anxiety.  "  Lis- 
ten to  me,  Itzig.  I  may  yet  be  saved;  every  thing  de- 


364:  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

pends  upon  my  obtaining  a  delay,  that  my  credit  may  not 
be  shaken.  You  are  rich — " 

"  No,  I  am  poor/'  interrupted  Itzig,  vehemently. 
"  I  am  perfectly  poor;  I  have  nothing  but  what  I  earn." 

"  But  you  can  earn  a  great  deal,"  said  Gotzkowsky, 
with  a  faint  smile.  "  I  wish  to  effect  a  loan  from  you. 
Take  my  word  of  honor  as  security." 

"  Your  word  of  honor!  "  cried  Itzig,  thrusting  back 
his  hand.  "  What  can  I  do  with  your  word  of  honor? 
I  cannot  advance  any  money  on  it." 

"  Consider!  the  honor  of  my  name  is  concerned — 
and  this,  till  now,  I  have  kept  unsullied  before  God  and 
man! "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  imploringly. 

"  And  if  my  own  honor  was  concerned,"  exclaimed 
Itzig,  "  I  would  rather  part  with  it  than  my  money. 
Money  makes  me  a  man.  I  am  a  Jew.  I  have  nothing 
but  money — it  is  my  life,  my  honor!  I  cannot  part  with 
any  of  it." 

But  Gotzkowsky  did  not  allow  himself  to  be  re- 
pulsed. It  seemed  to  him  that  his  future,  his  honor,  his 
whole  life  hung  upon  this  moment.  He  felt  like  a 
gambler  who  has  staked  his  last  hope  upon  one  throw  of 
the  dice.  If  this  fails,  all  hope  is  gone;  no  future,  no 
life  is  left,  nothing  but  the  grave  awaits  him.  With 
impetuous  violence  he  seized  the  hand  of  the  rich  Itzig. 
"Oh!"  said  he,  "remember  the  time  when  you  swore 
eternal  gratitude  to  me." 

"  I  never  would  have  sworn  it,"  cried  Itzig — "  no,  by 
the  Eternal,  I  never  would  have  done  it,  if  I  had  thought 
you  would  ever  have  needed  it!  " 

"  The  honor  of  my  name  is  at  stake! "  cried  Gotz- 
kowsky, in  a  tone  of  heart-rending  agony.  "  Do  you 
not  understand  that  this  is  to  me  my  life?  Eem ember 
your  vow!  Let  your  heart  for  once  feel  sympathy — act 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  365 

as  a  man  toward  his  fellow-man.  Advance  me  money 
upon  my  word  of  honor.  No,  not  on  that  alone — on 
my  house,  on  all  that  belongs  to  me.  Lend  me  the  sum 
I  need.  Oh!  I  will  repay  it  in  a  princely  manner.  Help 
me  over  only  these  shoals,  and  my  gratitude  to  you  will 
be  without  bounds.  You  have  a  heart — take  pity  on 
me!" 

Itzig  looked  with  a  malicious  smile  into  his  pale, 
agitated  face.  "  So  the  rich,  the  great  Christian  banker, 
in  the  hour  of  his  trouble,  thinks  that  the  poor  derided 
Jew  has  a  heart;  I  admit  that  I  have  a  heart — but  what 
has  that  to  do  with  money?  When  business  begins, 
there  the  heart  stops.  No,  I  have  no  heart  to  lend  you 
money! " 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer  immediately.  He  stood 
for  an  instant  motionless,  as  if  paralyzed  in  his  inmost 
being.  His  soul  was  crushed,  and  he  scarcely  felt  his 
grief.  He  only  felt  and  knew  that  he  was  a  lost  man, 
and  that  the  proud  edifice  of  his  fortune  was  crumbling 
under  him,  and  would  bury  him  in  its  ruins.  He  folded 
his  hands  and  raised  his  disconsolate  looks  on  high;  he 
murmured:  You  see  my  suffering,  0  God!  I  have  done 
my  utmost!  I  have  humbled  myself  to  begging — to 
pitiful  complaining.  My  God!  my  God!  will  no  help- 
ing hand  stretch  itself  once  more  to  me  out  of  the 
cloud?" 

"  You  should  have  prayed  before  to  God,"  said  Itzig, 
with  cruel  mockery.  "  You  should  have  begged  Him  for 
prudence  and  foresight." 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  heed  him.  He  fought  and 
struggled  with  his  immense  suffering,  and,  being  a  noble 
and  a  brave  man,  he  at  length  conquered  it.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  had  been  cowed  and  downcast,  but  now  he  re- 
covered all  the  power  of  his  energetic  nature.  He  raised 
24 


366  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

again  his  bowed  head,  and  his  look  was  once  more  de- 
termined and  defiant.  "  Well,  then,  I  have  tried  every 
thing;  now  I  accept  my  fate.  Listen,  then,  Herr  Itzig, 
I  am  going  to  suspend  payment;  my  house  must  fail!  " 

Itzig  shuddered  with  a  sudden  terror.  "  My  God!  " 
cried  he,  "  only  yesterday  I  bought  a  draft  of  yours. 
You  will  not  pay  it?  " 

"  I  will  not  do  it,  because  I  cannot ;  and  I  would  not 
do  it,  if  I  could.  I  have  humbled  myself  before  you  in 
the  dust,  and  you  have  stretched  out  no  hand  to  raise  me. 
Farewell,  and  may  that  now  happen  which  you  would 
not  prevent  when  you  could!  You  punish  yourself. 
Farewell! " 

Itzig  held  him  convulsively  back,  and  cried,  in  a 
voice  drowned  by  rage,  "  You  will  pay  my  draft  ?  " 

"  I  will  not,"  said  Gotzkowsky.  "  You  have  judged; 
take  now  your  reward."  He  threw  Itzig's  hands  from 
him,  and  hastened  from  the  spot. 

Behind  him  sounded  the  wailing  and  raging  of  Itzig, 
who  implored  Heaven  and  hell  to  punish  the  criminal 
who  had  cheated  him  of  his  money. 


CHAPTER   XII. 

THE    LEIPSIC    MERCHANT. 

EXHAUSTED  and  weary,  Gotzkowsky  returned  to  his 
house,  and  retired  to  his  room,  to  give  himself  up  to  the 
sad  and  terrible  thoughts  which  tortured  him.  He 
could  not  conceal  from  himself  that  the  sword  above 
his  head  was  only  suspended  by  two  thin  threads.  If 
De  Neufville  did  not  return  from  Amsterdam,  and  if  the 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  3G7 

courier  did  not  bring  a  relief  from  Leipsic,  then  was  he 
lost  without  redemption,  and  the  deadly  sword  must  fall. 
For  the  first  time  did  he  think  of  death;  for  the  first  time 
did  the  thought  of  it  flash  like  lightning  through  his 
brain,  and  make  him  almost  cheerful  and  happy. 

He  could  die;  it  was  not  necessary  that  he  should  bear 
the  pain  and  humiliation  of  life.  He  could  take  refuge 
in  the  quiet,  silent  grave  under  the  turf,  which  would 
soon  be  decked  with  flowers  over  his  agonized  breast. 
He  had  worked  much;  his  feet  were  sore,  and  his  heart 
weary,  from  his  walk  through  life.  Why  should  he  not 
lay  himself  down  in  the  grave  to  rest,  to  dream,  or  to 
sink  in  the  arms  of  eternal,  dreamless  sleep? 

But  this  enticing  thought  he  cast  forcibly  from  him. 
He  had  not  yet  lost  all  hope.  His  anticipations  rose  as 
the  door  opened,  and  the  servant  handed  him  a  large 
sealed  letter,  which  the  courier  from  Leipsic  had  just 
brought.  With  hasty  hand  he  seized  the  letter,  and 
motioned  to  Peter  to  retire.  But  as  soon  as  he  was  alone, 
and  was  about  to  break  the  seal,  he  drew  back  and  hesi- 
tated. This  letter  might,  indeed,  contain  his  salvation; 
but  it  might  also  contain  his  death-sentence.  He 
weighed  it  in  his  hand  thoughtfully,  and  muttered  to 
himself:  "  It  is  as  light  as  a  feather,  and  yet  its  con- 
tents may  be  heavy  enough  to  hurl  me  down  the  abyss. 
But  this  is  foolish,"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  drawing  himself 
up  proudly.  "  At  least  I  will  know  my  fate,  and  see 
clearly  into  the  future." 

With  a  firm  hand  he  broke  the  seal.  But  as  he  read, 
horror  and  dismay  were  depicted  in  his  countenance, 
and  his  whole  frame  shook.  Violently  he  flung  the  paper 
on  the  ground.  "  This,  then,  this  is  my  reward — re- 
proaches, accusations,  instead  of  thanks;  scorn  and 
malice,  instead  of  compassion.  Eeproaches,  because  I 


368  THE   MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

assisted  them;  accusations,  that  I  had  offered  to  help 
them;  only  because  without  me  it  would  have  been  im- 
possible for  the  King  of  Prussia  to  raise  so  much  money. 
Without  my  mediation,  they  say,  they  would  not  have 
paid,  but  at  the  utmost  would  have  had  to  endure  a 
somewhat  longer  imprisonment,  which  would  have  been 
more  tolerable  than  the  loss  of  such  immense  sums." 

He  paced  impatiently  up  and  down,  and  as  he  came 
to  the  letter  he  spurned  it  with  his  foot,  like  a  poisonous 
adder,  too  loathsome  to  touch.  "  I  have  deserved  this 
punishment,"  cried  he,  laughing  aloud  from  inward  pain. 

"  Who  bade  me  love  mankind  ?  who  bade  me  help 
them,  instead  of  like  a  highwayman  falling  upon  and 
plundering  them,  when  they  were  defenceless?  Fool 
that  I  was  to  give  to  life  any  other  interpretation,  any 
'other  end!  "  He  threw  himself  in  a  chair,  and  was  soon 
buried  in  thought.  Once  more  he  reviewed  his  whole 
past,  and  as  he  made  up  the  accounts  of  his  life,  he 
had  to  confess  that  the  total  of  his  hours  of  happiness 
was  but  small,  while  that  of  his  years  of  misery  and  toil 
was  heavy  enough  to  bear  him  down.  But  there  was  still 
one  hope,  and  as  long  as  he  could  expect  De  Neufville's 
arrival  all  was  not  lost,  and  he  must  still  wait  in  patience, 
still  struggle  with  the  worm  that  gnawed  at  his  heart. 
With  such  painful  thoughts  as  these  was  he  busied  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Elise  entered  with  a  glowing  coun- 
tenance. 

She  was  so  happy,  that  in  her  selfishness  she  did  not 
perceived  his  troubled  and  careworn  looks.  "  Oh  "  said 
she,  kissing  his  hand,  "  I  am  so  happy  at  last  to  find  you 
alone  at  home.  Several  times  have  I  sought  you  here/' 

"With  letters  for  me?"  asked  he,  hurriedly,  for  he 
had  not  observed  Elise's  excited  countenance.  Both 
were  so  occupied  with  their  own  thoughts  and  feelings, 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

that  they  took  note  of  nothing  else.  "  Have  not  letters 
arrived  ?  "  asked  he  once  more. 

"  No  letters  have  arrived/'  said  she,  smiling  joyously, 
"  but  happiness  has  come." 

"  De  Neufville  is  here,  then!"  cried  Gotzkowsky, 
anxiously,  hurrying  toward  the  door. 

"What  has  De  Neufville  to  do  with  it?"  asked 
Elise,  with  surprise  holding  him  back. 

Gotzkowsky  stared  for  a  moment,  terrified  at  her 
bright  face,  and  then  a  sad  smile  stole  across  his  own. 
"Poor  fool  that  I  am!"  he  muttered;  "I  complain  of 
the  egotism  of  men,  while  I  am  selfish  enough  to  think 
only  of  myself."  He  drew  Elise  toward  him,  and  look- 
ing at  her  with  infinite  tenderness,  said,  "  Well,  my 
child,  speak:  what  happiness  has  arrived?" 

"  Look  at  me,"  said  she,  playfully;  "  can  you  read 
nothing  in  my  looks?  " 

Sadly  he  looked  down  deep  into  her  large  bright 
eyes.  "  Oh,  your  eyes  shine  as  bright  as  two  stars  of 
hope,  the  last  that  are  left  me!  " 

Elise  threw  both  her  arms  around  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him,  then  drew  him  with  gentle  force  toward  the 
ottoman,  and,  as  she  forced  him  down  on  the  cushions, 
she  took  her  own  seat,  smiling,  on  the  stool  at  his  feet. 
"  How  often,  my  father,  have  you  sat  here  and  cared  for 
me!  Ah!  I  know  well  how  much  sorrow  I  have  caused 
you  in  these  last  four  sad  years,  I  could  not  command  my 
heart  to  forget.  You  knew  this,  and  yet  you  have  been 
considerate  and  gentle  as  a  mother,  and  kind  as  the  best 
of  fathers.  You  were  never  angry  with  me  on  account 
of  my  grief;  you  knew  of  it,  and  yet  you  allowed  me  to 
weep."  She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  for  a  moment 
covered  her  hot,  burning  face  with  it,  then  looked  cheer- 
fully up  in  his  face.  "  See,"  she  said,  "  I  do  not  shed 


370  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

any  more  tears,  or,  if  I  do,  they  are  tears  of  joy.  My 
father,  I  come  to  ask  your  blessing.  Feodor  is  again 
here;  he  has  come  to  ask  me  of  you  for  his  wife.  Oh, 
forgive  him,  and  grant  your  blessing  to  a  love  which  till 
now  has  been  the  anguish  of  my  life,  but  which  hereafter 
will  be  its  chief  happiness!  " 

Blushing  and  with  maiden  modesty  she  nestled  in  her 
father's  breast.  Gotzkowsky  felt  himself  paralyzed  with 
terror.  He  pressed  his  child's  head  warmly  to  his  breast, 
saying  to  himself,  "  And  this,  too,  my  God!  you  try  me 
sorely.  This  is  the  greatest  sacrifice  you  have  demanded 
of  me  yet;  but  my  pride  is  gone.  This  offering,  too,  will 
I  make." 

"  Well,  my  father,  you  do  not  answer?  "  asked  Elise, 
still  leaning  on  his  breast.  "  All  is  right,  is  it  not? 
and  you  will  give  us  your  fatherly  blessing,  and  forgive 
Feodor  the  errors  of  former  years,  and  receive  him  as  a 
son?" 

Gotzkowsky,  with  his  eyes  still  raised  to  heaven, 
moved  his  lips  in  silent  prayer.  At  last,  after  a  long, 
painful  pause,  he  said  solemnly:  "Well,  let  it  be  so;  I 
give  my  consent." 

Elise  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  and,  amidst  tears  of  unal- 
loyed delight,  kissed  him,  as  smiling,  and  often  inter- 
rupted by  her  own  deep  emotion,  she  narrated  her  meet- 
ing with  Feodor,  Lodoiska's  death,  and  the  letter  she  had 
written  to  her.  "  Oh,  how  delightful  this  hour  would 
be,"  continued  she,  after  finishing  her  narrative,  "  if  I 
could  only  remain  with  you!  Love  bids  me  go,  and  yet 
it  keeps  me  here!  I  have  promised  Feodor  to  go  with 
him,  but  I  did  it  in  my  haste,  seeing  only  him  and  listen- 
ing only  to  his  prayers.  Now  I  see  you,  my  father,  and 
it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  could  not  leave  you  to-day." 

"  To-day!  "  cried  Gotzkowsky,  and  a  ray  of  joy  shone 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  371 

from  his  face.  He  arose,  and,  with  folded  arms,  paced 
the  room.  His  soul  was  full  of  gratitude  to  God,  to 
whom  he  had  prayed  in  his  despair.  Was  this  not  a 
sign  that  God  was  with  him,  even  if  men  forsook  him? 
— that  God  had  pity  on  him,  even  if  all  others  were  piti- 
less. This  day  his  child  wished  to  leave  him,  to  enter 
on  a  brilliant  destiny.  He  had,  therefore,  no  longer 
any  need  to  be  anxious  about  her  fate;  and,  as  she  was 
going  to  leave  at  once,  he  would  be  spared  the  torture 
of  having  her  as  a  witness  to  his  disgrace  and  degrada- 
tion. He  took  her  to  his  breast,  and  kissed  her  with 
heartfelt  fervor.  "  Farewell,  my  child,  my  only  happi- 
ness; you  wish  to  leave  me.  I  will  be  alone,  but  I  will 
have  time  to  think  of  and  pray  for  you."  He  then  cast 
her  from  him  almost  roughly,  for  he  felt  as  if  his  grief 
would  unman  him.  "  Go,"  he  cried,  "  your  bridegroom 
is  waiting  for  you;  go,  then,  and  order  your  bridal  orna- 
ments." 

Elise  smiled.  "  Yes,  I  will  adorn  myself;  but  you, 
father,  will  place  the  wreath  of  myrtle  on  my  head,  will 
you  not?  That  is  the  sacred  and  last  office  of  love 
with  which  a  mother  sends  a  daughter  from  her 
arms.  I  have  no  mother.  You  are  both  father  and 
mother  to  me.  Will  you  not  crown  me  with  the  myrtle- 
wreath?" 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  with  a  sigh,  "  I  will  place  the  myrtle 
on  your  brow,  and  God  grant  it  may  not  turn  to  a 
crown  of  thorns!  Go  now,  my  child,  adorn  thyself,  and 
leave  me  alone  to  pray  for  you." 

He  greeted  her  smilingly,  and  accompanied  her  to 
the  door.  But  when  she  had  left  the  room  he  felt  in- 
describably lonesome,  and,  pressing  his  hands  against 
his  breast  to  suppress  the  cry  which  choked  him,  he  mut- 
tered in  a  low  tone,  "I  have  lost  hsr — she  is  mine  no 


372  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

longer.  Every  thing  forsakes  me.  The  unfortunate  is 
ever  alone!  " 

Once  more  a  knocking,,  repeated  at  his  door,  awak- 
ened him  from  his  reverie.  Peter  his  servant  entered, 
and  announced  Herr  Ephraim. 

A  ray  of  joyful  astonishment  flashed  across  him,  and, 
as  he  stepped  hastily  toward  the  rich  Jew  of  the  mint, 
he  said  to  himself:  "Is  it  possible  that  this  man  comes; 
to  have  pity  on  me  in  my  distress?  Will  he  be  more 
magnanimous  than  Itzig?  Will  he  assist  me?" 


CHAPTEE    XIII. 

EPHEAIM    THE   TEMPTEK. 

"You  seek  me?"  asked  Gotzkowsky,  as  Ephraim 
entered  and  saluted  him  in  silence. 

Gotzkowsky's  sharp  glance  had  detected  in  his  in- 
solent bearing  and  contracted  features  that  it  was  not 
pity  or  sympathy  which  had  brought  the  Jew  to  him, 
but  only  a  desire  to  gloat  over  the  sufferings  of  his  vic- 
tim. "  He  shall  not  enjoy  his  triumph.  He  shall  find 
me  collected  and  determined,  and  shall  not  suspect  my 
grief."  Thus  thinking,  he  forced  his  features  into  a 
cheerful  expression,  and  handing  a  chair  to  the  still  si- 
lent Ephraim,  said  laughingly:  "  Indeed,  I  must  be  in 
a  dangerous  plight,  if  the  birds  of  prey  are  already  set- 
tling around  me.  Do  you  already  scent  my  death, 
Herr  Ephraim?  By  Heaven!  that  would  be  a  dainty 
morsel  for  you! " 

"  You  are  angry  with  me,"  said  Ephraim,  shaking  his 
head  slowly;  "but  you  shall  know  how  much  injustice 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  373 

you  do  me.  I  bring  you  an  important  and  fearful  piece 
of  news." 

"  It  must  be  fearful,  indeed,"  interrupted  Gotzkow- 
sky,  "  as  you  do  yourself  the  pleasure  of  bringing  it  to  me 
in  person." 

Ephraim  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  abruptly  re- 
plied, "  De  Neufville  has  failed!  " 

A  cry  of  horror  escaped  Gotzkowsky's  lips;  he  stag- 
gered, and  was  obliged  to  support  himself  by  a  chair  to 
keep  himself  from  falling.  This  was  the  last,  decisive 
blow,  and  it  had  wounded  him  mortally.  "  De  Neuf- 
ville has  failed!  "  he  muttered  low  to  himself. 

"  Yes,  he  is  bankrupt!  "  said  Ephraim  with  scarcely 
suppressed  malice.  "  The  proud  Christian  merchant, 
whose  greatest  pleasure  it  was  to  look  down  with  con- 
tempt upon  the  Jew  Ephraim,  he  is  bankrupt.  The 
Jew  stands  firm,  but  the  Christian  merchant  is  broken." 
And  as  he  spoke,  he  broke  into  a  scornful  laugh,  which 
brought  back  to  Gotzkowsky  his  composure  and  self- 
possession. 

"You  triumph!"  he  said,  "and  on  your  brow  is 
marked  your  rejoicing  over  our  fall.  Yes!  you  have 
conquered,  for  De  Neufville's  failure  is  your  deed.  It 
was  you  who  persecuted  him  so  long,  and  by  cunning 
suspicions  and  calumny  undermined  his  credit  until  it 
was  destroyed,  and  the  whole  edifice  of  his  honorable 
industry  fell  together." 

"  It  is  my  work,"  cried  Ephraim  exultingly,  "  for  he 
stood  in  my  way,  and  I  have  pushed  him  out  of  it — what 
more?  Life  is  but  a  combat;  whoever  is  the  strongest — 
that  is,  has  the  most  money — is  conqueror." 

"  De  Neufville  has  fallen — that  is  a  hard  blow,"  mut- 
tered Gotzkowsky;  and  as  his  wandering  eye  met  Ephra- 
im's,  he  added  with  an  expression  of  complete  pros- 


374  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

tration:  "Enjoy  my  suffering;  you  have  succeeded — 
I  am  hurt  unto  death!  " 

"  Listen  to  me,  Gotzkowsky,"  said  Ephraim,  ap- 
proaching nearer  to  him;  "  I  mean  well  by  you." 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  said  Gotzkowsky,  bitterly;  "  after  you 
have  hastened  my  downfall,  you  condescend  to  love  me. 
Yes,  indeed!  I  believe  in  your  friendship;  for  none  but 
a  friend  would  have  had  the  heart  to  bring  such  a  Job's 
message." 

Ephraim  shook  his  head.  "  Listen  to  me,"  said  he; 
"  I  will  be  quite  candid  with  you.  Formerly  I  hated 
you,  it  is  true,  for  you  were  more  powerful  and  richer 
than  I  was;  you  were  renowned  for  being  honest  and 
punctual,  and  that  hurt  me.  If  a  large  bargain  was  to 
be  made,  they  were  not  satisfied  unless  Gotzkowsky  was 
concerned  in  it,  and  if  your  name  stood  at  the  bottom 
of  a  contract,  every  one  was  pleased.  Your  name  was 
as  good  as  gold,  and  that  vexed  me." 

"  And  for  that  reason  you  wished  to  overthrow  me, 
and  worked  unceasingly  for  my  downfall;  because  you 
knew  that  I  expected  this  remittance  of  light  money 
from  Hamburg! " 

"  I  procured  the  decision  that  the  light  money  should 
be  declared  uncurrent,  that  is  true.  I  succeeded. 
From  this  hour  I  am  more  powerful  and  richer  than 
you.  You  shall  see  that  I  only  hated  your  house,  not 
yourself;  I  have  come  to  help  you.  You  must  indeed 
fail;  that  I  am  aware  of,  and  that  if  you  were  to  put 
forth  all  your  power,  you  could  not  stand  this  blow. 
You  must  and  will  fail,  and  that  this  very  day." 

Gotzkowsky  muttered  some  unintelligible  words,  and 
covered  his  face  with  his  hands.  "  Yes,"  he  cried,  pite- 
ously,  "  I  and  all  my  hopes  have  suffered  shipwreck." 

Ephraim  laid  his  hand  suddenly  upon  his  shoulder. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  375 

"  Seek,  then,  to  save  some  plank  from  the  wreck,  on 
which  you  may  swim.  You  can  no  longer  save  your 
creditors;  save  yourself." 

Gotzkowsky  removed  his  hands  slowly  from  his  face, 
and  looked  at  him  with  astonishment  and  wonder. 

Ephraim  met  his  look  with  a  smiling  and  mysterious 
expression,  and  bending  down  to  Gotzkowsky's  ear,  whis- 
pered: "  I  think  you  will  not  be  such  a  fool  as  to  give  up 
all  you  have  to  your  creditors,  and  to  go  out  of  your 
house  a  poor  man.  Intrust  me  with  your  important 
papers,  and  all  that  you  possess  of  money  and  valuables, 
and  I  will  preserve  them  for  you.  You  do  not  answer. 
Come,  be  reasonable;  do  not  allow  the  world  the  pleasure 
of  pitying  you;  it  does  not  deserve  it.  Believe  me, 
mankind  is  bad;  and  he  is  a  fool  who  strives  to  be  better 
than  his  fellows."  He  stopped,  and  directed  an  inquir- 
ing look  toward  Gotzkowsky. 

The  latter  regarded  bin  proudly  and  with  contempt. 
"  This,  then,  is  your  friendship  for  me  ?  You  wish  to 
make  me  a  cheat!  " 

"  Every  man  cheats  his  neighbor,"  cried  Ephraim, 
shrugging  his  shoulders;  "  why  should  you  alone  be 
honest?" 

"  Because  I  do  not  wish  to  be  ashamed  of  myself. 
It  is  the  fault  of  others  that  I  fall  to-day.  It  shall  not  be 
said  that  Gotzkowsky  is  guilty  of  any  crime  of  his  own." 

"  It  will  be  said,  nevertheless,"  interrupted  Ephraim; 
"  for  whoever  is  unfortunate,  is  in  the  wrong,  in  the  eyes 
of  men.  And  if  he  can  help  himself  at  the  expense  of 
others,  and  does  not  do  it,  do  you  think  men  will  admire 
him  for  it?  No!  believe  me,  they  will  only  laugh  at 
him.  I  have  often  been  sorry  for  you,  Gotzkowsky;  for, 
with  all  your  good  sense,  your  whole  life  through  ha? 
been  a  miscalculation — " 


376  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

"  Or  rather  say,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  sadly,  "  I  have 
not  calculated  enough,  and  from  all  the  experiences  of 
my  life  I  have  not  drawn  the  sum  total." 

"  You  miscalculated,"  said  Ephraim,  "  for  you  cal- 
culated on  gratitude.  That  is  a  had  investment  which 
does  not  bear  interest.  Mankind  cannot  be  grateful, 
and  when  any  one  tries  to  be  so  he  must  sink,  for  others 
are  not  so.  Whoever  wishes  to  succeed  in  this  world, 
must  think  only  of  himself,  and  keep  his  own  interest  in 
sight." 

"  You  wise  men  of  the  world  are  right!  "  cried  Gotz- 
kowsky,  with  a  hoarse  laugh. 

Unhindered  by  Gotzkowsky's  vehement  and  scornful 
bearing,  Ephraim  continued:  "  If  I  had  thought  as  you 
did,  I  would  not  have  been  able  to  operate  against  you, 
nor  could  I  have  brought  the  mint  ordinance  to  bear  on 
you.  Then,  to  be  sure,  I  would  have  been  grateful,  but 
it  would  not  have  been  business-like.  Therefore  I 
thought  first  of  my  own  welfare,  and  after  that  I  came 
here  to  serve  you,  and  show  you  my  gratitude." 

"  I  do  not  desire  any  gratitude.  Let  me  go  my  way 
— you  go  yours." 

Ephraim  looked  at  him  almost  pityingly.  "  Be  rea- 
sonable, Gotzkowsky;  take  good  advice.  The  world  does 
not  thank  you  for  being  honorable.  Mankind  has  not 
deserved  the  pleasure  of  laughing  at  you.  And  they  will 
laugh! " 

"Leave  me,  I  tell  you!"  cried  Gotzkowsky;  "you 
shall  not  deprive  me  of  my  last  possession,  my  con- 
science! " 

"  Conscience!  "  sneered  Ephraim.  "  You  will  starve 
on  that  capital." 

Gotzkowsky  sighed  deeply  and  dropped  his  head  on 
his  breast.  At  this  moment  there  were  heard  from  with- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  377 

out  loud  hurrahs  and  jubilant  sounds,  mingled  with  the 
tones  of  martial  music. 

King  Frederick  II.  was  returning  this  day  to  Berlin, 
after  a  long  absence,  and  the  happy  and  delighted  Ber- 
liners  had  prepared  for  him  a  pompous  and  brilliant 
entry.  They  had  built  triumphal  arches,  and  the  guilds 
had  gone  forth  to  accompany  him  into  the  city,  now 
adorned  for  festivity.  The  procession  had  to  pass  by 
Gotzkowsky's  house,  and  already  were  heard  the  sounds 
of  the  approaching  music,  while  the  shouts  and  cries  of 
the  people  became  louder  and  shriller. 

Ephraim  stepped  to  the  window,  opened  it,  and  point- 
ing down  into  the  street,  he  said,  with  a  mocking  laugh: 
"Just  look,  Gotzkowsky!  Thefe  is  the  true  test  of 
your  beautiful,  high-toned  principles.  How  often  has 
Berlin  not  called  you  her  benefactor,  and  yet  she  is 
overjoyed  on  the  very  day  you  are  going  to  ruin!  The 
whole  town  of  Berlin  knows  that  Gotzkowsky  fails  to- 
day, and  yet  they  pass  by  your  house  with  merry  music, 
and  no  one  thinks  of  you." 

"  He  is  right,"  murmured  Gotzkowsky,  as  the  huzzas 
sounded  under  his  window.  "  He  is  right!  I  was  a 
fool  to  love  mankind." 

Ephraim  pointed  down  into  the  street  again.  "  See," 
said  he,  "  there  comes  Count  Salm,  whom  you  saved  from 
death  when  the  Russians  were  .here.  He  does  not  look 
up  here.  Ah,  there  goes  the  banker,  Splittyerber,  whose 
factories  in  Neustadt  Eberswald  you  saved  at  the  same 
time.  He,  too,  does  not  look  up.  Oh!  yes,  he  does,  and 
laughs.  Look  there!  There  goes  the  king  with  his 
staff.  You  have  caused  his  majesty  much  pleasure.  You 
accomplished  his  favorite  wish — you  founded  the  porce- 
lain factory.  You  travelled  at  your  own  expense  into 
Italy,  and  bought  pictures  for  him.  You  preserved  his 


378  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

capital  from  pillage  by  the  Austrians  and  Eussians.  The 
Dutch  ambassador,  who  at  that  time  interfered  in  favor 
of  Berlin  with  the  Austrians,  him  has  the  king  in  his 
gratitude  created  a  count.  What  has  he  done  for  you? 
What  Verelse  did  was  but  a  trifle  in  comparison  with 
your  services,  yet  he,  forsooth,  is  made  a  count.  What 
has  the  king  done  for  you?  See,  the  king  and  his  staff 
has  passed  by,  and  not  one  of  them  has  looked  up  here. 
Yesterday  they  would  have  done  so,  for  yesterday  you 
were  rich;  but  to-day  they  have  forgotten  you  already: 
for  to-day  you  are  poor,  and  the  memory  of  the  people 
is  very  short  for  the  poor.  Ah!  look  down  again,  Gotz- 
kowsky — so  many  gentlemen,  so  many  high-born  people 
are  passing!  Not  one  looks  up!  " 

Against  his  will  Gotzkowsky  had  been  drawn  to  the 
window,  and,  enticed  by  Ephraim's  words,  he  had  looked 
down  anxiously  and  mournfully  at  the  brilliant  proces- 
sion which  was  passing  by.  How  much  would  he  not 
have  given  if  only  one  of  the  many  who  had  formerly 
called  themselves  his  friends  had  looked  up  at  him,  had 
greeted  him  cordially?  But  Ephraim  was  right.  No 
one  did  so.  No  one  thought  of  him  who,  with  a  broken 
heart,  was  leaning  beside  the  window,  asking  of  mankind 
no  longer  assistance  or  help,  but  a  little  love  and  sym- 
pathy. But,  as  he  looked  down  into  the  street  again,  his 
countenance  suddenly  brightened  up.  He  laid  his  hand 
hastily  on  Ephraim's  shoulder,  and  pointed  to  the  pro- 
cession. 

"You  are  right,"  said  he;  "the  respectable  people 
do  not  look  up  here,  but  here  comes  the  end  of  the  pro- 
cession, the  common  people,  the  poor  and  lowly,  the 
workmen.  Look  at  them!  See  how  they  are  gazing  at 
me.  Ah,  they  see  me,  they  greet  me,  they  wave  their 
hats!  There,  one  of  them  is  putting  his  hand  to  his 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  379 

face.  He  is  a  day-laborer  who  formerly  worked  in  my 
factory.  This  man  is  weeping,  and  because  he  knows 
that  I  have  been  unfortunate.  See!  here  come  others — 
poor  people  in  ragged  clothes — women  with  nurslings  in 
their  arms — tottering  old  men — they  all  bend  dewy  eyes 
on  me.  Do  you  see?  they  smile  at  me.  Even  the  chil- 
dren stretch  up  their  arms.  Ah,  they  love  me,  although 
I  am  no  longer  rich." 

And  turning  with  a  beaming  face  and  eyes  moistened 
with  tears  toward  Ephraim,  he  exclaimed:  "  You  tell  me 
that  I  have  miscalculated.  No!  you  are  mistaken.  I 
calculated  on  the  kernel  of  humanity,  not  on  the  de- 
generate shell.  And  this  noble  kernel  of  humanity  re- 
sides in  the  people,  the  workmen,  and  the  poor.  I  trusted 
in  these,  and  they  have  not  betrayed  my  confidence." 

Ephraim  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  The  people  are 
weathercocks;  they  will  stone  to-morrow  the  same  men 
whom  they  bless  to-day.  Only  wait  until  public  opinion 
has  condemned  you,  and  the  people,  too,  will  forsake  you. 
Protect  yourself,  then,  against  men.  When  you  were 
rich,  every  one  partook  of  your  liberality;  now  that  you 
are  poor,  no  one  will  be  willing  to  share  your  misfortune. 
Therefore  save  yourself,  I  tell  you.  Collect  whatever 
papers  and  valuables  you  may  have.  Give  them  to  me. 
By  the  God  of  my  fathers  I  will  preserve  them  faithfully 
and  honestly  for  you!  " 

Gotzkowsky  repulsed  him  with  scorn,  and  indignant 
anger  flashed  from  his  countenance.  "  Back  from  me, 
tempter! "  cried  he,  proudly.  "  It  is  true  you  possess 
the  wisdom  of  the  world,  but  one  thing  is  wanting  in 
your  wisdom — the  spirit  of  honor.  I  know  that  this 
does  not  trouble  you  much,  but  to  me  it  is  every  thing. 
You  are  right:  I  will  be  a  beggar,  and  men  will  point  at 
me  with  their  finger,  and  laugh  me  to  scorn.  But  I  will 


380  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

pass  them  by  proudly,  nor  will  I  bend  my  head  before 
them,  for  my  dignity  and  honor  as  a  man  are  uncon- 
nected with  gold  or  property.  These  are  my  own,  and 
when  I  die,  on  my  tomb  will  be  written — '  He  died  in 
poverty,  but  he  was  an  honorable  man.' '; 

"  Fool  that  you  are!  "  exclaimed  Ephraim,  laughing 
in  contempt.  "  You  are  speculating  on  your  epitaph, 
while  the  fortune  of  your  life  slips  away  from  you. 
Take  my  advice:  there  is  yet  time  to  secure  your  fu- 
ture." 

"  Never,  if  it  is  to  be  accomplished  by  frauds!  " 

"  Think  of  your  daughter." 

A  painful  quivering  flitted  across  Gotzkowsky's  face. 
"Who  gives  you  a  right  to  remind  me  of  her?"  asked 
he  angrily.  "  Do  not  soil  her  name  by  pronouncing  it. 
I  have  nothing  in  common  with  you." 

"  Yes,  you  have,  though,"  said  Ephraim  with  a 
wicked  smile.  "  You  have  done  me  a  good  deed,  and  I 
am  thankful.  That  is  something  in  common." 

Gotzkowsky  did  not  answer  him.  He  crossed  the 
room  hastily,  and  stepped  to  his  writing-table,  out  of  a 
secret  drawer  of  which  he  drew  a  dark-red  case.  He 
opened  it  and  snatched  out  the  diamond  ring  that  was 
contained  in  it. 

"  I  do  not  wish  your  gratitude,"  said  he,  turning  to 
Ephraim.  anger  flashing  from  his  countenance — "  and  if 
you  could  offer  me  all  the  treasures  of  the  world,  I  would 
throw  them  to  the  earth,  as  I  do  this  ring! "  And  he 
cast  down  the  costly  jewel  at  Ephraim's  feet. 

The  latter  raised  it  coolly  from  the  ground  and  ex- 
amined it  carefully.  He  then  broke  out  into  a  loud, 
scornful  laugh.  "  This  is  the  ring  which  the  Jews  pre- 
sented to  you  when  you  procured  our  exemption  from 
the  war-tax.  You  give  it  to  me?  " 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  381 

"  I  give  it  to  you,  and  with  it  a  curse  on  the  tempter 
of  my  honor!  " 

"  You  repulse  me,  then  ?  You  will  have  none  of  my 
gratitude?  " 

"  Yes;  if  your  hand  could  save  me  from  the  abyss,  I 
would  reject  it!  " 

"  Let  it  be  so,  then,"  said  Ephraim;  and  his  face  as- 
sumed an  expression  of  hatred  and  malice — for  now  it 
could  be  perceived  that  the  rich  Ephraim  was  again  over- 
come by  Gotzkowsky,  although  the  latter  was  a  poor  and 
shattered  man.  His  sympathy  and  his  help  had  only 
met  with  a  proud  refusal  from  him  whom  he  had  not 
succeeded  in  humbling  and  dragging  down  to  the  dust. 

"  Let  it  be  so,  then!  "  he  repeated,  gnashing  his  teeth. 
"  You  will  not  have  it  otherwise.  I  take  the  ring,"  and 
looking  at  Gotzkowsky  maliciously,  he  continued: 
"  With  this  ring  I  will  buy  you  a  place  in  the  church- 
yard, that  the  dishonored  bankrupt  may,  at  least,  find 
an  honorable  grave,  and  not  be  shovelled  in  like  De 
Neufville  the  suicide! " 

"What  do  you  say — De  Neufville  is  dead?"  cried 
Gotzkowsky,  hurrying  after  him  as  he  neared  the  door, 
and  seizing  him  violently  by  the  arm.  "  Say  it  once 
more — De  Neufville  is  dead?" 

Ephraim  enjoyed  for  a  moment,  in  silence,  Gotz- 
kowsky's  terrible  grief.  He  then  freed  himself  from  his 
grasp  and  opened  the  door.  But  turning  round  once 
more,  and  looking  in  Gotzkowsky's  face  with  a  devilish 
grin,  he  slowly  added,  "  De  Neufville  killed  himself  be- 
cause he  could  not  survive  disgrace."  And  then,  with 
a  loud  laugh,  he  slammed  the  door  behind  him. 

Gotzkowsky  stared  after  him,  and  his  soul  was  full 
of  inexpressible  grief.  He  had  lost  in  De  Neufville  not 
only  a  friend  whom  he  loved,  and  on  whose  fidelity  he 
25 


382  THB  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

could  count,  but  his  own  future  and  his  last  hope  were 
buried  in  his  grave.  But  his  own  tormenting  thoughts 
left  him  no  leisure  to  mourn  over  his  deceased  friend. 
It  was  the  kind  of  death  that  De  Neufville  had  chosen 
which  occupied  his  mind. 

"  He  came  to  his  death  by  his  own  hand;  he  did  not 
wish  to  survive  his  disgrace.  He  has  done  right — for 
when  disgrace  begins,  life  ends — and  shall  I  live,"  asked 
he  aloud,  as  almost  angrily  he  threw  his  head  back,  "  an 
existence  without  honor,  an  existence  of  ignominy  and 
misery?  I  repeat  it,  De  Neufville  has  done  right.  Well, 
then,  I  dare  not  do  wrong;  my  friend  has  shown  me  the 
way.  Shall  I  follow  him?  Let  me  consider  it." 

He  cast  a  wild,  searching  look  around  the  room,  as  if 
he  feared  some  eye  might  be  looking  at  him,  and  read 
desperate  thoughts  in  the  quivering  of  his  face.  "Yes! 
I  will  consider  it,"  whispered  he,  uneasily.  "  But  not 
here — there  in  my  cabinet,  where  every  thing  is  so  silent 
and  solitary,  no  one  will  disturb  me.  I  will  think  of  it, 
I  say."  And  with  a  dismal  smile  he  hurried  into  his 
study,  and  closed  the  door  behind  him. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

ELISE. 

THE  bridal  costume  was  completed,  and  with  a  bright 
face,  smiling  and  weeping  for  sheer  happiness,  Elise  stood 
looking  at  herself  in  a  large  Venetian  mirror.  Not  from 
vanity,  nor  to  enjoy  the  contemplation  of  her  beauty,  but 
to  convince  herself  that  all  this  was  not  a  dream,  only 
truth,  delightful  truth.  The  maiden,  with  blushing 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  383 

cheeks,  stood  and  looked  in  the  glass,  in  her  white  dress, 
till  she  smiled  back  again;  so  like  a  bride, that  she  shouted 
aloud  for  joy,  kissed  her  hand  to  herself,  in  the  fulness 
of  her  mirth,  as  she  greeted  and  smiled  again  to  her 
image  in  the  mirror.  "  I  salute  you,  happy  bride!  "  said 
she,  in  the  exuberance  of  her  joy.  "  I  see  in  your  eyes 
that  you  are  happy,  and  so  may  God  bless  you!  Go 
forth  into  the  world  and  teach  it  by  your  example,  that 
for  a  woman  there  is  no  happiness  but  love,  no  bliss  but 
that  of  resting  in  the  arms  of  her  lover.  But  am  I  not 
too  simply  clad  ?  "  cried  she,  interrupting  herself  sud- 
denly, and  examining  herself  critically  in  the  glass. 
"  Yes,  indeed,  that  simple,  silly  child  is  not  worthy  of 
such  a  handsome  and  splendid  cavalier:  a  white  silk  dress 
and  nothing  else!  How  thoughtless  and  foolish  has  hap- 
piness made  me!  My  Heaven!  I  forgot  that  he  comes 
from  the  land  of  diamonds,  and  that  he  is  a  prince.  Oh! 
I  will  adorn  myself  for  my  prince."  And  she  took  from 
her  desk  the  costly  set  of  diamonds,  the  legacy  of  her 
mother,  and  fastened  the  glittering  brilliants  in  her  ears, 
on  her  arms,  and  the  necklace  set  with  diamonds  and 
emeralds  around  her  snow-white  neck. 

"  Now  that  looks  splendid,"  said  she,  as  she  surveyed 
herself  again.  "  Now  perhaps  I  may  please  him.  But 
the  last  ornament  is  still  wanting — my  myrtle-wreath — 
but  that  my  father  shall  put  on."  Looking  at  the 
wreath,  she  continued,  in  a  more  serious  and  sad  tone: 
"  Crown  of  love  and  of  death!  it  is  woven  in  the  maiden's 
hair  when  she  dies  as  a  maiden,  whether  it  be  to  arise 
again  as  a  wife  or  as  a  purified  spirit."  And  raising  her 
tearful  eyes  to  heaven,  she  exclaimed:  "I  thank  Thee, 
0  God,  for  granting  me  all  this  happiness.  My  whole 
life,  my  whole  future,  shall  evince  but  gratitude  toward 
Thee,  who  art  the  God  of  love." 


384:  THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN. 

Soon,  however,  it  became  too  close  and  solitary  in 
this  silent  chamber.  She  wished  to  go  to  her  father, 
to  throw  herself  on  his  breast,  to  pour  out  to  him  all  her 
happiness,  her  affection,  her  joy,  in  words  of  thankful- 
ness, of  tender  child-like  love.  How  the  white  satin 
dress  rustled  and  shone!  how  the  diamonds  sparkled  and 
glittered,  as,  meteor-like,  they  flitted  down  the  dark 
corridor!  With  a  bright,  happy  smile,  holding  the 
wreath  in  her  hand,  she  stepped  into  her  father's  room. 
But  the  apartment  was  empty.  She  crossed  it  in  haste 
to  seek  him  in  his  study.  The  doors  were  locked  and  no 
one  answered  her  loud  calls.  She  supposed  he  had  gone 
out,  and  would  doubtless  soon  return.  She  sat  down 
to  await  him,  and  soon  sank  into  deep  thought  and 
reverie.  What  sweet  and  precious  dreams  played  around 
her,  and  greeted  her  with  happy  bodings  of  the  future! 

The  door  opened,  and  she  started  up  to  meet  her 
father.  But  it  was  not  her  father — it  was  Bertram. 
And  how  altered — how  pale  and  troubled  he  looked! 
He  hardly  noticed  her,  and  his  eye  gleamed  on  her  with- 
out seeing  her.  What  was  it  that  had  so  changed  him? 
Perhaps  he  already  knew  that  she  was  to  be  married  to- 
day, and  that  her  lover,  so  long  mourned,  had  returned 
to  her.  She  asked  confusedly  and  anxiously  for  her 
father. 

"  My  God!  is  he  not  here,  then?  "  asked  Bertram  in 
reply.  "  I  must  speak  to  him,  for  I  have  things  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  tell  him." 

Elise  looked  at  him  with  inquiring  astonishment. 
She  had  never  seen  him  so  intensely  excited  in  his  whole 
being,  and  unwillingly  she  asked  the  cause  of  his  trouble 
and  anxiety. 

Bertram  denied  feeling  any  anxiety,  and  yet  his  eye 
wandered  around  searchingly  and  uneasily,  and  his  whole 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  385 

frame  was  restless  and  anxious.  This  only  made  Elise 
the  more  eager  to  find  out  the  cause  of  his  trouble.  She 
became  more  pressing,  and  Bertram  again  assured  her 
that  nothing  had  happened. 

Elise  shook  her  head  distrustfully.  "  And  yet  I  do 
not  deceive  myself!  Misfortune  stands  written  on  your 
brow."  Then,  turning  pale  with  terror,  she  asked,  "  Do 
you  brlrq;  my  father  bad  news?  " 

Bertram  did  not  answer,  but  cast  his  eyes  on  the 
ground  to  escape  her  searching  gaze.  There  awoke  in 
her  breast  all  the  anxiety  and  care  of  a  loving  daughter, 
and  she  trembled  violently  as  she  implored  him  to  inform 
her  of  the  danger  that  threatened  her  father.  He 
could  withstand  her  no  longer.  "  She  must  learn  it 
some  time;  it  is  better  she  should  hear  it  from  me," 
muttered  he  to  himself.  He  took  her  hand,  led  her  to 
the  sofa,  and,  sitting  down  by  her  side,  imparted  to  her 
slowly  and  carefully,  always  endeavoring  to  spare  her 
feelings,  the  terrible  troubles  and  misfortunes  of  her 
father.  But  Elise  was  little  acquainted  with  the  ma- 
terial cares  of  life.  She,  who  had  never  known  any  ex- 
treme distress,  any  real  want,  could  not  understand  how 
happiness  and  honor  could  depend  on  money.  When 
Bertram  had  finished,  she  drew  a  long  breath,  as  if  re- 
lieved from  some  oppressive  anxiety.  "  How  you  have 
frightened  me! "  said  she,  smiling.  "  Is  that  all  the 
trouble — we  are  to  be  poor?  Well,  my  father  does  not 
care  much  about  money." 

"  But  he  does  about  his  honor,"  said  Bertram. 

"  Oh,  the  honor  of  my  father  cannot  stand  in  any 
danger,"  cried  Elise,  with  noble  pride. 

Bertram  shook  his  head.  "  But  it  is  in  danger,  and 
though  we  are  convinced  of  his  innocence,  the  worl'1 
will  not  believe  it.  It  will  forget  all  his  noble  deeds. 


386  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

all  his  high-mindedness  and  liberality,  it  will  obliterate 
all  his  past,  and  only  remember  that  this  day,  for  the 
first  time  in  his  life,  he  has  it  not  in  his  power  to  fulfil 
his  word.  It  will  condemn  him  as  if  he  were  a  com- 
mon cheat,  and  brand  him  with  the  disgraceful  name 
of  bankrupt."  With  increasing  dismay  Elise  had 
watched  his  countenance  as  he  spoke.  Now,  for  the 
first  time,  the  whole  extent  of  the  misfortune  which 
was  about  to  befall  her  father  seemed  to  enter  her  mind, 
and  she  felt  trembling  and  crushed.  She  could  feel  or 
think  of  nothing  now  but  the  evil  which  was  rushing  in 
upon  her  parent,  and  with  clasped  hands  and  tears  in  her 
eyes  she  asked  Bertram  if  there  was  no  more  hope;  if 
there  was  no  one  who  could  avert  this  evil  from  her 
father. 

Bertram  shook  his  head  sadly.  "  His  credit  is  gone — 
no  one  comes  to  his  assistance." 

"No  one?"  asked  Elise,  putting  her  hand  with  an 
indescribable  expression  on  his  shoulder.  "  And  you, 
my  brother?  " 

"  Ah,  I  have  tried  every  thing,"  said  he;  and  even  in 
this  moment  her  very  touch  darted  through  him  like  a 
flash  of  delight.  "  I  have  implored  him  with  tears  in 
my  eyes  to  accept  the  little  I  possess,  to  allow  me  the 
sacred  right  of  a  son.  But  he  refused  me.  He  will  not, 
he  says,  allow  a  stranger  to  sacrifice  himself  for  his  sake. 
He  calls  me  a  stranger!  I  know  that  my  fortune  cannot 
save  him,  but  it  may  delay  his  fall,  or  at  least  cancel  a 
portion  of  his  debt,  and  he  refuses  me.  He  says  that  if 
I  were  his  son,  he  would  consent  to  what  he  now  denies 
me.  Elise,"  he  continued,  putting  aside,  in  the  pressure 
of  the  moment,  all  consideration  and  all  hesitation,  "  I 
have  asked  him  for  your  hand,  my  sister,  that  I  may  in 
reality  become  his  son.  I  know  that  you  do  not  love, 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  387 

but  you  might  esteem  me;  for  the  love  I  bear  your  fa- 
ther, you  might,  as  a  sacrifice  to  your  duty  as  a  daughter, 
accept  my  hand  and  become  my  bride." 

He  ceased,  and  looked  anxiously  and  timidly  at  the 
young  girl,  who  sat  blushing  and  trembling  by  his  side. 
She  felt  that  she  owed  him  an  answer;  and  as  she  raised 
her  eyes  to  him,  and  looked  into  his  noble,  faithful  face, 
which  had  never  changed,  never  altered — as  she  thought 
that  Bertram  had  always  loved  her  with  the  same  fidel- 
ity, the  same  self-sacrifice — with  a  love  which  desired 
nothing,  wished  for  nothing  but  her  happiness  and  con- 
tentment, she  was  deeply  moved;  and,  for  the  first  time, 
she  felt  real  and  painful  remorse.  Freely  and  gracefully 
she  offered  him  her  hand. 

"  Bertram,"  she  said,  "  of  all  the  men  whom  I  know, 
you  are  the  most  noble!  As  my  soul  honors  you,  so 
would  my  heart  love  you,  if  it  were  mine." 

Bertram  bent  over  her  hand  and  kissed  it;  but  as  he 
looked  at  her,  his  eye  accidentally  caught  sight  of  the 
sparkling  jewels  which  adorned  her  arms  and  neck,  and 
aware  for  the  first  time  of  her  unusually  brilliant  toilet, 
he  asked  in  surprise  the  occasion  for  it. 

"  Oh,  do  not  look  at  it,"  cried  Elise;  "  tell  me  about 
my  father.  What  did  he  answer  you  when  you  asked 
him  for  my  hand?  " 

"That  he  would  never  accept  such  a  sacrifice  from 
his  daughter,  even  to  save  himself  from  death." 

"  And  is  his  fall  unavoidable?  "  asked  Elise  thought- 
fully. 

"I  almost  fear  it  is.  This  morning  already  reports 
to  that  effect  were  current  in  the  town,  and  your  father 
himself  told  me  that  if  Kussia  insisted  on  payment,  he 
was  lost  irretrievably.  Judge,  then,  of  my  horror,  when 
I  have  just  received  from  a  friend  in  St.  Petersburg  the 


388  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

certain  intelligence  that  the  empress  has  already  sent  a 
special  envoy  to  settle  this  business  with  the  most  strin- 
gent measures.  This  half  a  million  must  be  of  great  im- 
portance to  the  empress,  when,  for  the  purpose  of  col- 
lecting it,  she  sends  her  well-known  favorite,  Prince 
Stratimojeff! " 

Elise  started  from  her  seat  in  horror,  and  stared  at 
Bertram.  "  Whom  did  she  send?  " 

"  Her  favorite,  Stratimojeff,"  repeated  Bertram, 
calmly. 

Elise  shuddered;  her  eyes  flashed  fire,  and  her  cheeks 
burned.  "  Who  has  given  you  the  right  to  insult  the 
Prince  Stratimojeff,  that  you  call  him  the  favorite  of 
the  adulterous  empress?  " 

Bertram  looked  at  her  in  astonishment.  "  What  is 
Prince  Stratimojeff  to  you? "  said  he.  "  The  whole 
world  knows  that  he  is  the  favorite  of  Catharine.  Read, 
then,  what  my  correspondent  writes  me  on  the  subject." 
He  drew  forth  a  letter,  and  let  Elise  read  those  passages 
which  alluded  especially  to  the  mission  of  the  imperial 
favorite. 

Elise  uttered  a  scream,  and  fell  back  fainting  on  the 
sofa;  every  thing  swam  before  her;  her  blood  rushed  to 
her  heart;  and  she  muttered  faintly,  "  I  am  dying — oh,  I 
am  dying! "  But  this  momentary  swoon  soon  passed 
over,  and  Elise  awoke  to  full  consciousness  and  a  percep- 
tion of  her  situation.  She  understood  every  thing — she 
knew  every  thing.  With  a  feeling  of  bitter  contempt 
she  surveyed  all  the  circumstances — her  entire,  pitiable, 
sorrowful  misfortune.  "  Therefore,  then,"  said  she  to 
herself,  almost  laughing  in  scorn,  "  therefore  this  hasty 
wedding,  this  written  consent  of  the  empress — I  was  to 
be  the  cloak  of  this  criminal  intercourse.  Coming 
from  her  arms,  he  was  anxious  to  present  me  to  the  world. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  339 

;  Look !  you  calumniate  me !  this  is  my  wife,  and  the 
empress  is  as  pure  as  an  angel! ' '"  She  sprang  up,  ami 
paced  the  room  with  hasty  steps  and  rapid  breathing. 
Her  whole  being  was  in  a  state  of  excitement  and  agita- 
tion. She  shuddered  at  the  depth  of  pitiable  meanness 
she  had  discovered  in  this  man,  who  not  only  wished  to 
cheat  and  delude  her,  but  was  about,  as  if  in  mockery  of 
all  human  feeling,  to  make  herself  the  scapegoat  of  her 
imperial  rival. 

She  did  not  notice  that  Bertram  was  looking  at  her 
in  all  astonishment,  and  in  vain  seeking  a  clew  to  her 
conduct.  "  This  is  too  much! "  cried  she,  half  solilo- 
quizing. "  Love  cannot  stand  this!  Love!  away  with 
the  word — I  would  despise  myself  if  I  could  find  a 
spark  of  this  love  in  my  heart!  "  She  pressed  her  hands 
to  her  breast,  as  if  she  wished  thereby  to  extinguish  the 
flames  which  were  consuming  her  "  Oh! "  she  cried, 
*'  it  burns  fearfully,  but  it  is  not  love!  Hate,  too,  has  its 
fires.  I  hate  him!  I  know  it  now — I  hate  him,  and  I 
will  have  vengeance  on  the  traitor!  I  will  show  him  that 
I  scorn  him!  "  Like  an  infuriated  tigress  she  darted  at 
the  myrtle-wreath  which  lay  on  the  table.  "  The  bond 
of  love  is  broken,  and  I  will  destroy  it  as  I  do  this 
wreath! "  she  exclaimed,  wildly;  but  suddenly  a  gentle 
hand  was  laid  upon  her  extended  arm,  and  Bertram's 
soft  and  sympathizing  voice  sounded  in  her  ear. 

What  he  said,  what  words  he  used — he  who  now 
understood  all,  and  perceived  the  fulness  of  her  grief — 
with  what  sincere,  heart-born  words  he  sought  to  com- 
fort her,  she  neither  knew  nor  understood.  But  she 
heard  his  voice;  she  knew  that  a  sympathizing  friend 
stood  at  her  side,  ready  to  offer  a  helping  hand  to 
save  her  from  misery,  and  faithfully  to  draw  her  to  his 
breast.  She  would  have  been  lost,  she  would  have  gone 


390  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

crazy,  if  Bertram  had  not  stood  at  her  side.  She  felt  it 
• — she  knew  it.  Whenever  she  had  been  threatened  with 
calamity,  he  was  always  near,  to  watch  and  shield,  to 
afford  her  peace  and  comfort. 

"  Bertram!  Bertram!  "  she  cried,  trembling  in  every 
limb,  "  protect  me.  Do  not  shut  me  out  from  your 
heart!  have  pity  on  me! "  She  leaned  her  head  on  his 
breast  and  wept  aloud.  Now,  in  her  sorrow,  she  felt  it 
to  be  a  blessing  that  he  was  present,  and  for  the  first 
time  she  had  a  clear  consciousness  that  God  had  sent  him 
to  her  to  be  a  helping  friend,  a  guardian  angel. 

The  illusions  and  errors  of  her  whole  life  fell  from 
before  her  eyes  like  a  veil,  and  she  saw  in  a  clear  light 
both  herself  and  Bertram.  And  now,  as  she  leaned  her 
head  upon  his  breast,  her  thoughts  became  prayers,  and 
her  tears  thank-offerings.  "  I  have  entertained  an  angel 
unawares,"  said  she,  remembering,  unintentionally,  the 
language  of  Holy  Writ.  When  Bertram  asked  the 
meaning  of  her  words,  she  answered,  "  They  mean  that 
an  erring  heart  has  found  the  right  road  home." 

She  wiped  away  her  tears  with  her  long  locks.  She 
would  no  longer  weep,  nor  shed  a  single  tear  for  the 
false,  intriguing  traitor,  the  degenerate  scion  of  a  de- 
generate race.  He  was  not  worthy  of  a  sigh  of  revenge, 
not  even  of  a  reproach.  A  mystery  had  slept  in  her 
breast,  and  she  thought  to  have  found  the  true  solution 
in  the  word  "  Feodor!  "  but  she  was  mistaken,  and  God 
had  allowed  this  long-mourned,  long-desired  man  to 
return  to  her,  that  she  might  be  allowed  to  read  anew 
the  riddle  of  her  heart  more  correctly,  to  find  out  its 
deceitful  nature,  its  stubborn  pride,  and  to  conquer 
them.  Thus  thinking,  she  raised  her  head  from  Ber- 
tram's breast,  and  looked  at  him  "  You  asked  my  fa- 
ther for  my  hand.  Do  you  still  love  me?  " 


THE   MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  391 

Bertram  smiled.  This  question  seemed  so  strange 
and  singular!  "  Do  I  love  you?"  asked  he.  "  Can  he 
ever  cease  to  love  who  has  once  loved?  " 

"  Do  you  still  love  me?  "  she  repeated. 

"  Faithfully  and  honorably,"  said  he,  with  feeling. 

"Faithfully  and  honorably!"  cried  Elise,  deeply 
moved.  "  Oh  those  are  words  as  strong  as  rocks,  and 
like  the  shipwrecked  sailor,  I  will  cling  to  them  to  save 
myself  from  sinking.  Oh,  Bertram,  how  good  you  are! 
You  love  my  father,  and  desire  to  be  his  son,  only  for 
the  sake  of  helping  him." 

"  And  if  need  be,  to  work  for  him,  to  give  up  my 
life  for  him!  " 

With  her  bright  eyes  she  looked  deeply  into  his,  and 
held  out  her  hand  to  him.  "  Give  me  your  hand,  Ber- 
tram," said  she,  softly.  "  You  were  a  better  son  to  my 
father  than  I  have  been  a  daughter.  I  will  learn  from 
you.  Will  you  be  my  teacher?  " 

Bertram  gazed  at  her  astonished  and  inquiringly. 
She  replied  to  this  look  with  a  sweet  smile,  and  like 
lightning  it  shot  through  his  heart,  and  a  happy  antici- 
pation pervaded  his  entire  soul.  "My  God!  my  God! 
is  it  possible?"  murmured  he,  "is  the  day  of  suffering, 
indeed,  past?  Will—" 

He  felt  Elise  suddenly  shudder,  and  pressing  his 
hand  significantly,  she  whispered,  "  Silence,  Bertram, 
look  there! " 

Bertram  followed  the  direction  of  her  eyes,  and  saw 
Gotzkowsky,  who  had  opened  the  door  of  his  study,  and 
was  entering  the  room,  his  features  pale  and  distorted, 
and  his  gaze  fixed.  "  He  does  not  see  us,"  whispered 
Elise.  "  He  is  talking  to  himself.  Do  not  disturb  him." 

In  silence  she  pointed  to  the  curtains  just  behind 
them,  concealing  a  recess,  in  the  middle  of  which  stood 


392  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

a  costly  vase.  "  Let  us  conceal  ourselves,"  said  she,  and, 
unnoticed  by  Gotzkowsky,  they  glided  behind  the  cur- 
tains. 


CHAPTEE    XV. 

THE    EESCUE. 

GOTZKOWSKY  had  closed  with  life  and  earthly  affairs. 
He  had  signed  the  document  declaring  him  a  bankrupt, 
and  he  had  delivered  over  all  his  property  to  his  creditors. 
The  die  had  been  cast.  He  had  been  powerful  and 
•great  through  money,  but  his  power  and  greatness  had 
now  gone  from  him,  for  he  was  poor.  The  same  men 
who  yesterday  had  bowed  down  to  the  ground  before 
him,  had  to-day  passed  him  by  in  pride  and  scorn;  and 
those  who  had  vowed  him  eternal  gratitude,  had  turned 
him  from  their  door  like  a  beggar.  Why  should  he 
continue  to  bear  the  burdens  of  a  life  which  had  no 
longer  any  allurements,  and  whose  most  precious  jewel, 
his  honor,  he  had  lost? 

De  Neufville  had  done  right,  and  only  a  coward 
would  still  cling  to  life  after  all  that  was  worth  living 
for  had  disappeared.  They  should  not  point  scornfully 
at  him  as  he  went  along  the  streets.  He  would  not  be 
condemned  to  hear  whispered  after  him,  "Look!  there 
goes  Gotzkowsky  the  bankrupt."  No,  this  fearful  word 
should  never  wound  his  ears  or  pierce  his  heart. 

Once  more  only  would  he  pass  through  those  streets, 
which  had  so  often  seen  him  in  his  glory — once  more, 
not  poor,  nor  as  the  laughing-stock  of  children,  but  so 
that  those  who  now  derided  him  should  bow  down  before 
him,  and  honor  him  as  the  mourning  emblem  of  departed 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  393 

honor:  only  his  body  should  pass  by  these  men  who  had 
broken  his  heart.  He  had  determined  to  quit  this  miser- 
able existence,  to  leave  a  world  which  had  proved  itself 
to  him  only  a  gulf  of  wickedness  and  maliee,  and  his 
freed  spirit  would  wing  its  way  to  regions  of  light  and 
knowledge. 

With  such  thoughts  he  entered  the  room  which  was 
to  be  the  scene  of  his  last  hours.  But  he  would  not  go 
down  to  the  grave  without  bearing  witness  to  the  wicked- 
ness and  malice  of  the  world.  His  death  should  be  a 
monument  of  its  disgrace  and  ingratitude. 

For  this  purpose  he  had  sought  this  room,  for  in  it 
was  the  costly  etagere  on  which  stood  the  silver  pitcher 
presented  to  him  by  the  Council  of  Leipsic  as  a  token  of 
their  gratitude,  and  from  it  he  would  drink  his  fatal 
draught.  He  took  it  and  emptied  into  it  a  small  white 
powder,  that  looked  so  innocent  and  light,  and  yet  was 
strong  enough  to  drag  him  down  with  leaden  weight 
into  the  grave.  He  then  took  the  water-goblet  and 
poured  water  on  it.  The  draught  was  ready;  all  that 
was  necessary  was  for  him  to  put  it  to  his  lips  to  imbibe 
eternal  rest,  eternal  oblivion. 

Elise  saw  it  all — understood  it  all.  She  folded  her 
hands  and  prayed;  her  teeth  chattered  together,  and  all 
that  she  could  feel  and  know  was,  that  she  must  save 
him,  or  follow  him  to  the  grave.  "  When  he  raises  the 
pitcher  to  his  lips,  I  will  rush  out,"  she  whispered  to 
Bertram,  softly,  and  opened  the  curtains  a  little  in  order 
to  watch  him. 

Gotzkowsky  had  returned  to  the  etagere.  He  took 
the  silver-oaken  wreath,  the  civic  crown  presented  to  him 
by  the  city  of  Berlin,  and  looked  at  it  with  a  bitter, 
scornful  smile.  "I  earned  this,"  he  said,  half  aloud— 
"I  will  take  it  with  me  to  the  grave.  They  shall  find 


394  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

my  corpse  crowned  with  this  wreath,  and  when  they 
turn  away  in  shame,  the  broken  bankrupt,  John  Gotz- 
kowsky,  will  enjoy  his  last  triumph  over  a  degenerate 
world."  And  as  if  in  a  dream,  in  the  feverish  delirium 
of  grief,  he  placed  the  wreath  on  his  brow,  then  for  a 
moment  stood  with  his  head  bent  in  deep  thought. 

It  was  a  strange  picture  to  see  his  proud,  tall  figure, 
his  pale,  nervous  face,  crowned  with  the  silver  wreath, 
and  opposite  to  him,  looking  through  the  curtains,  his 
daughter,  whose  glowing  eyes  were  eagerly  watching  her 
father. 

And  now  Gotzkowsky  seized  the  silver  pitcher,  raised 
it  on  high — it  had  already  touched  his  lips — but  sud- 
denly he  staggered  back.  A  dearly-loved  voice  had 
called  his  name.  Ah,  it  was  the  voice  of  his  daughter, 
whom  he  had  forgotten  in  the  bitterness  of  his  grief. 
He  had  believed  his  heart  dead  to  all  feeling,  but  love 
still  lived  in  him,  and  love  called  him  back  to  life.  Like 
an  electric  shock  it  flew  through  his  whole  frame. 

He  put  the  pitcher  down,  and  covering  his  face  with 
his  hands,  cried,  "  Oh,  unnatural  father!  I  forgot  my 
child!  " 

Behind  him  stood  Elise,  praying  to  God  eagerly  and 
fervently.  She  wished  to  appear  quite  composed,  quite 
unsuspicious,  that  her  father  might  not  have  even  an 
inkling  of  her  knowledge  of  his  dark  design.  Her  voice 
dare  not  tremble,  her  eye  must  remain  clear  and  calm, 
and  a  smile  play  about  her  lips,  which  yet  quivered  with 
the  anxious  prayers  she  had  just  offered  to  God.  "  My 
father!  "  she  said,  in  a  low  but  quiet  voice — "  my  father, 
I  come  to  beg  your  blessing.  And  here  is  the  myrtle 
wreath  with  which  you  were  to  adorn  me." 

Gotzkowsky  still  kept  his  face  covered,  but  his  whole 
frame  trembled.  "  I  thank  Thee,  0  my  God!  I  thank 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  395 

Thee!  the  voice  of  my  child  has  saved  me."  And  turn- 
ing round  suddenly,  he  stretched  out  both  arms  toward 
her,  exclaiming  aloud:  "  Elise,  my  child,  come  to  my 
heart,  and  comfort  your  father." 

Elise  uttered  a  cry  of  joy,  rushed  into  his  arms,  and 
nestled  close  to  his  heart.  She  whispered  in  his  ear 
words  of  fervent  love,  of  warmest  affection.  They  fell 
on  Gotzkowsky's  heart  like  soothing  halm;  they  forced 
tears  of  mingled  joy  and  repentance  from  his  eyes. 

A  long  while  did  they  remain  locked  in  each  other's 
arms.  Their  lips  were  silent,  hut  their  hearts  spoke, 
and  they  understood  each  other  without  words.  Then 
Elise  raised  herself  from  her  father's  embrace,  and,  again 
offering  him  the  myrtle- wreath,  said  with  a  smile,  "  And 
now,  my  father,  bless  your  daughter." 

"  I  will,"  said  Gotzkowsky,  drying  his  eyes.  "  Yes, 
from  my  whole  soul  will  I  bless  you.  But  where  is  the 
bridegroom?" 

Elise  looked  at  him  inquiringly.  "  Will  you  bid  him, 
also,  welcome?  " 

"  That  I  will  with  all  my  heart!  " 

Elise  approached  the  curtain,  drew  it  back,  and  tak- 
ing Bertram's  hand,  led  him  to  her  father,  saying, 
with  indescribable  grace:  "  My  father,  bless  your  chil- 
dren." 

"  This  is  your  bridegroom?  "  asked  Gotzkowsky,  and 
for  the  first  time  a  sunbeam  seemed  to  flash  across  his 
face. 

Bertram  with  a  cry  of  delight  drew  Elise  to  his  heart. 
She  clung  to  him,  and  said  warmly:  "  I  will  rest  on  your 
breast,  Bertram.  I  will  be  as  true  and  as  faithful  as  your- 
self. You  shall  reconcile  me  to  mankind.  You  will 
make  us  both  happy  again.  My  father  and  I  put  our 
hope  in  you,  and  we  both  know  it  will  not  be  in  vain. 


396  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Is  it  not  so,  my  father?"  She  extended  her  hand  to 
Gotzkowsky. 

He  took  it,  but  was  too  much  affected  to  speak.  He 
pressed  it  to  his  eyes  and  his  breast,  and  then  looked  with 
a  smile  into  the  countenance  of  his  daughter. 

Elise  continued:  "  Look,  father,  life  is  still  worth 
something.  It  gives  you  a  son,  who  is  happy  to  share 
your  unhappiness  with  you.  It  gives  you  a  daughter, 
who  looks  upon  every  tear  of  yours  as  a  jewel  in  your 
crown;  who  would  be  proud  to  go  as  a  beggar  with  her 
father  from  place  to  place,  and  say  to  all  the  world, 
*  Gotzkowsky  is  a  beggar  because  he  was  rich  in  love 
toward  his  fellow-men;  he  has  become  poor  because  he 
was  a  noble  man,  who  had  faith  in  mankind.' >:  And 
as  she  drew  her  father  into  her  own  and  Bertram's  em- 
brace, she  asked  him,  smiling  through  her  tears,  "  My 
father,  do  you  still  wish  to  leave  your  children?  " 

"No,  I  will  live — live  for  you!"  cried  Gotzkowsky, 
as,  almost  overcome  with  emotion  and  pleasure,  he  threw 
his  arms  around  their  necks,  and  kissed  them  both  warm- 
ly and  lovingly.  "  A  new  life  is  to  begin  for  us,"  said 
he,  cheerfully.  "  We  will  seek  refuge  in  a  quiet  cottage, 
and  take  with  us  none  of  the  show  and  luxury  for  which 
men  work  and  sell  their  souls — none  of  the  tawdriness  of 
life.  Will  you  not  be  content,  Elise,  to  be  poor,  and 
purchase  the  honor  of  your  father  with  the  loss  of  this 
vain  splendor?" 

Elise  leaned  her  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  I  was  poor," 
she  said,  "  when  the  world  called  me  rich.  Now  I  am 
rich  when  it  will  call  me  poor.  Give  up  every  thing 
that  we  possess,  father,  that  no  one  may  say  Gotzkowsky 
owes  him  any  thing,  and  has  not  kept  his  word."  With 
ready  haste  she  loosened  the  necklace  from  her  throat, 
the  bracelets  from  her  arms,  and  the  drops  from  her  ears. 


THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN.  397 

"  Take  these,  too/'  said  she,  smiling.  "  Add  them  to 
the  rest.  We  will  keep  nothing  but  honor,  and  the  con- 
sciousness of  our  probity." 

"  Now  I  am  your  son,  father,"  cried  Bertram,  with 
beaming  eyes.  "  Now  I  have  a  right  to  serve  you.  You 
dare  no  longer  refuse  to  accept  all  that  is  mine  for  your 
own.  We  will  save  the  honor  of  our  house,  and  pay  all 
our  creditors." 

"  That  we  will  do,"  exclaimed  Gotzkowsky;  "  I  ac- 
cept your  offering,  my  son."  And  joining  Elise  and  Ber- 
tram's hands  together,  he  cast  grateful  looks  to  heaven, 
saying:  "  From  this  day  forward  we  are  poor,  and  yet  far 
richer  than  many  thousands  of  rich  people ;  for  we  are  of 
sound  health,  and  have  strong  arms  to  work.  We  have 
good  consciences,  and  that  proud  contentment  which  God 
gives  to  those  only  who  trust  in  His  help." 


CHAPTEE   XVI. 

BETRIBUTION. 

THE  appointed  hour  had  arrived,  and  in  the  full 
splendor  of  his  rich  uniform,  decorated  with  orders,  and 
glittering  with  diamonds  bestowed  upon  him  by  the 
favor  of  two  empresses,  Prince  Feodor  von  Stratimojeff 
entered  Gotzkowsky's  house.  With  the  proud  step  of 
victory  he  ascended  the  stairs  that  led  to  the  apartments 
of  his  bride.  The  goal  was  at  last  reached.  The  beauti- 
ful, lovely,  and  wealthy  maiden  was  finally  to  become  his 
wife.  He  could  present  her  at  the  court  of  St.  Peters- 
burg, and  with  her  beauty,  her  virtue,  and  his  happiness 
revenge  himself  on  the  fickle  empress.  These  were  his 
28 


398  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

thoughts  as  he  opened  the  door  and  entered  Elise's  room. 
There  she  stood  in  her  white  bridal  attire,  as  delicate,  as 
slender,  and  as  graceful  as  a  lily  to  the  sight.  There 
stood  also  her  father,  and  the  friend  of  her  youth,  Ber- 
tram. The  witnesses  to  the  ceremony  were  present, 
and  nothing  more  was  necessary  but  to  lead  her  to  the 
altar.  Elise  had  requested  of  her  father  that  she  herself 
should  see  the  prince,  and  give  him  his  dismissal.  She 
had  also  requested  that  Bertram  should  be  present.  She 
wished  to  show  him  that  her  heart  had,  at  once  and  for- 
ever, been  healed  of  its  foolish  and  unholy  love,  and  that 
she  could  face  the  prince  without  trembling  or  hesita- 
tion. This  was  an  offering  which  she  wished  to  bring  to 
the  honor  of  her  future  husband  and  her  own  pride;  and 
she  would  have  despised  herself  if  a  motion  of  her  eye- 
brow or  a  sigh  from  her  breast  had  betrayed  the  sadness 
which,  against  her  will,  she  felt  in  her  heart.  She 
looked,  therefore,  with  a  cold  and  calm  eye  on  the  prince 
as  he  entered,  and  for  the  first  time  he  seemed  no  longer 
the  handsome  man,  the  being  endowed  with  numberless 
fascinations,  of  former  days.  She  read  only  in  his  flac- 
cid features  the  sad  history  of  the  past.  The  charm  was 
broken  which  had  held  her  eyes  captive.  Her  vision  was 
clear  again,  and  she  shuddered  before  this  wild,  de- 
moniacal beauty  which  she  had  once  adored  as  God's 
image  in  man.  As  she  looked  at  him,  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  hate  him,  because  she  had  loved  him;  because  she 
had  spent  her  first  youth,  her  first  love,  her  first  happi- 
ness, on  him;  because  he  had  defrauded  her  of  the 
peace  and  innocence  of  her  heart;  and  because  she  no 
longer  had  even  the  right  of  weeping  for  her  lost  love, 
but  was  forced  to  turn  away  from  it  with  blushes  of 
shame. 

Feodor  approached  with  an  air  of  happy  triumph  and 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  p,;)') 

satisfaction,  and,  bowing  low  to  her  father,  said,  with  a 
most  exquisite  smile,  "  I  have  come  to  seek  my  bride — 
to  request  Elise's  hand  of  her  father." 

With  eyes  beaming  with  pleasure  he  offered  Elise  his 
hand,  but  hers  remained  calm  and  cold,  and  her  voice 
did  not  tremble  or  falter  as  she  said:  "  I  am  a  bride,  but 
not  yours,  Prince  Stratimojeff; "  and  extending  IHT 
hand  to  Bertram,  she  continued:  "  This  is  my  husband! 
To-day,  for  the  third  time,  he  has  saved  me — saved  me 
from  you!  " 

Prince  Feodor  felt  annihilated,  and  staggered  back 
as  if  struck  by  an  electric  shock.  "Elise!  is  this  the 
way  you  reward  my  love  ?  "  asked  he  sadly,  after  a  pause. 
"  Is  this  the  troth  you  plighted  me  ?  " 

She  stepped  up  close  to  him,  and  said  softly:  "  I 
kept  my  heart  faithful  to  my  Feodor,  but  he  ceded  it  to 
Prince  Stratimojeff.  Elise  is  too  proud  to  be  the  wife 
of  a  man  who  owes  his  title  of  prince  to  the  fact  of  being 
the  favorite  of  an  empress." 

She  turned  and  was  about  to  leave  the  room,  but 
Feodor  held  her  back.  No  reserve,  no  concealment  were 
any  longer  possible  to  him.  He  only  felt  that  he  was 
infinitely  wretched,  and  that  he  had  lost  the  hope  of 
his  life.  "  Elise,"  he  said,  in  that  soft,  sad  tone,  which 
had  formerly  charmed  her  heart,  "  I  came  to  you  to  save 
me;  you  have  thrust  me  back  into  an  abyss.  Like  a 
drowning  man  I  stretched  out  my  hand  to  you,  that  in 
your  arms  I  might  live  a  new  life.  But  Fate  is  just. 
It  hunts  me  back  pitilessly  from  this  refuge,  and  I  must 
and  will  sink.  Well,  then,  though  the  waves  of  life 
close  over  me,  my  last  utterance  will  be  your  name." 

Elise  found  herself  capable  of  the  cruel  courage  of 
listening  to  his  pathetic  words  with  a  smile:  "  You  will 
yet  have  time  to  think  over  your  death,"  said  she,  with 


400  THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN. 

proud  composure;  and,  turning  to  her  father,  she  con- 
tinued, "  My  business  with  this  gentleman  is  finished. 
Now,  father,  begin  yours."  She  gave  her  hand  to  Ber- 
tram, and,  without  honoring  the  prince  with  another 
look,  she  left  the  room  with  her  betrothed. 

"  And  now,"  said  Gotzkowsky  coldly,  "  now,  sir,  let 
us  proceed  to  our  affairs.  Will  you  have  the  kindness 
to  follow  me  to  my  counting-room?  You  have  come 
to  Berlin  to  rob  me  of  my  daughter  and  my  property! 
You  have  been  unsuccessful  in  the  one;  try  now  the 
other." 

"  That  I  will,  that  I  shall!  "  cried  the  prince,  gnash- 
ing his  teeth,  and  anger  flashing  from  his  eyes.  "  Elise 
has  been  pitiless,  I  will  be  so  too." 

"  And  I  would  hurl  your  pity  from  me  as  an  insult," 
said  Gotzkowsky,  "  if  you  offered  it." 

"  We  are  then  enemies,  for  life  and  death — " 

"  Oh,  no !  We  are  two  tradesmen  who  bargain  and 
haggle  with  each  other  about  the  profits.  There  is  noth- 
ing more  between  us."  He  opened  the  door  and  called 
in  his  secretary  and  his  cashier.  "  This  gentleman," 
said  Gotzkowsky,  with  cutting  coldness,  "  is  the  agent  of 
Russia,  sent  here  to  negotiate  with  me,  and  in  case  I  can- 
not pay,  to  adopt  the  most  severe  measures  toward  me. 
You,  gentlemen,  will  transact  this  business  with  him. 
You  have  the  necessary  instructions."  He  then  turned 
to  the  prince,  who  stood  breathless  and  trembling  from 
inward  excitement,  burning  with  anger  and  pain,  and 
leaning  against  the  wall  to  keep  himself  from  falling. 
"  Prince,"  said  he,  "  you  will  be  paid.  Take  these  thirty 
thousand  dollars;  they  are  the  fortune  of  my  son-in-law. 
He  has  given  it  cheerfully  to  release  us  from  you.  Here, 
further,  are  my  daughter's  diamonds.  Take  them  to 
your  empress  as  a  fit  memorial  of  your  German  deeds, 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  40  { 

and  my  pictures  will  cover  the  balance  of  my  indebted- 
ness to  you."  * 

"It  is  too  much,  it  is  too  much!"  cried  Prince 
Feodor;  and  as  if  hunted  by  the  furies,  he  rushed  out, 
his  fists  clinched,  ready  to  crush  any  one  who  should  try 
to  stop  him. 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

TARDY    GEATITUDE. 

JOHN  GOTZKOWSKY,  the  rich  merchant  of  Berlin, 
had  determined  to  struggle  no  longer  with  Fate;  no 
longer  to  undergo  the  daily  martyrdom  of  an  endangered 
honor,  of  a  threatened  name.  Like  the  brave  Sicken- 
hagen,  he  said  to  himself,  "  Better  a  terrible  end  than 
an  endless  terror,"  and  he  preferred  casting  himself  down 
the  abyss  at  once,  to  be  slowly  hurled  from  cliff  to  cliff. 
He  had  given  notice  to  the  authorities  of  his  failure,  and 
of  his  intention  of  making  over  all  his  property  to  his 
creditors.  He  was  now  waiting  to  hand  over  the  assets 
to  the  assignees,  and  leave  the  house  which  was  no  longer 
his.  Not  secretly,  however,  but  openly,  in  the  broad 
daylight,  he  would  cross  the  threshold  to  pass  through 
the  streets  of  that  town  which  was  so  much  indebted  to 
him,  and  which  had  formerly  hailed  him  as  her  savior 
and  preserver.  It  was  inevitable — he  must  fall,  but  his 

*  Gotzkowsky  paid  his  debt  to  Russia  with  thirty  thousand 
dollars  cash ;  a  set  of  diamonds ;  and  pictures  which  were  taken 
by  Russia  at  a  valuation  of  eighty  thousand  dollars,  and  formed 
the  first  basis  of  the  imperial  gallery  at  St.  Petersburg.  Among 
these  were  some  of  the  finest  paintings  of  Titian,  some  of  the  best 
pieces  of  Rubens,  and  one  of  Rembrandt's  most  highly  executed 
works — the  portrait  of  his  old  mother. 


402  THE  MERCHANT  OP  BERLIN. 

fall  should  at  the  same  time  be  his  revenge.  For  the  last 
time  he  would  open  the  state  apartments  of  his  house; 
for  the  last  time  receive  his  guests.  But  these  guests 
would  be  the  legal  authorities,  who  were  to  be  his  heirs 
while  he  was  yet  alive,  and  who  were  to  consign  his  name 
to  oblivion  before  death  had  inscribed  it  on  any  tomb- 
stone. 

The  announcement  of  his  fall  had  spread  rapidly 
through  the  town,  and  seemed  at  last  to  have  broken 
through  the  hardened  crust  which  collects  around  men's 
hearts.  The  promptings  of  conscience  seemed  for  a  mo- 
ment to  overcome  the  voice  of  egotism.  The  magistrates 
were  ashamed  of  their  ingratitude;  and  even  the  Jews 
of  the  mint,  Ephraim  and  Itzig,  had  perceived  that  it 
would  have  been  better  to  have  avoided  notoriety,  and 
to  have  raised  up  the  humbled  Gotzkowsky,  than  to  have 
trodden  him  in  the  dust  entirely. 

Instead  of  the  officials  whom  he  had  expected,  how- 
ever, a  committee  of  the  Council,  accompanied  by 
Ephraim  and  Itzig,  entered  his  house  and  asked  to  speak 
with  him.  He  received  them  in  his  apartments  of  state, 
with  his  children  at  his  side.  His  figure  was  erect,  his 
head  proudly  raised,  and  he  regarded  them,  not  as  an 
unfortunate,  downcast  man,  but  as  a  superior  would 
regard  his  inferiors ;  and  they  lowered  their  eyes  before 
his  penetrating  glances,  ashamed  and  conscious  of  wrong. 

"  The  Council  have  sent  us,"  said  one  of  the  alder- 
men. 

"  I  have  no  further  business  with  the  Council,"  said 
Gotzkowsky,  contemptuously. 

"  Gotzkowsky,  do  not  be  angry  with  us  any  longer," 
said  the  aldermen,  almost  imploringly.  "  The  magis- 
tracy, in  acknowledgment  of  your  great  services  to  the 
city,  are  ready  and  willing  to  pay  the  sum  you  demand." 


THE  MERCHANT   OP  BERLIN.  4Q3 

Gotzkowsky  shook  his  head  proudly.  "  I  am  no 
longer  ready  to  accept  it.  The  term  has  expired;  you 
can  no  longer  buy  me  off;  you  remain  my  debtors." 

"  But  you  will  listen  to  us,"  cried  Itzig.  "  We  come 
in  the  name  of  the  Jews." 

"  We  are  empowered  to  assist  you/'  added  Ephraim. 
"  We  have  been  instructed  by  the  Jews  to  give  you,  on 
the  security  of  your  signature  and  the  prepayment  of 
the  interest,  as  much  money  and  credit  as  will  prevent 
your  house  from  failing." 

Gotzkowsky's  large  bright  eyes  rested  for  a  moment 
searchingly  and  speculatively  on  Ephraim's  countenance; 
and  the  light,  mocking  smile  which  stood  on  the  lips  of 
the  Jew  confirmed  his  determination,  and  strengthened 
him  in  his  resolution.  "  My  house  has  failed,"  said  he, 
quietly  and  proudly,  and,  reading  the  anxiety  and  terror 
depicted  on  their  countenances,  he  continued  almost  ex- 
ultingly:  "yes!  my  house  has  failed.  The  document 
in  which  I  announced  it  and  declared  myself  a  bankrupt, 
has  already  been  sent  to  the  magistracy  and  the  mer- 
chant's guild." 

"You  dare  not  fail!  "  cried  Itzig,  in  a  rage. 

"  You  dare  not  put  this  insult  upon  the  Council  and 
the  town,"  exclaimed  the  aldermen,  with  dignity.  "  We 
cannot  allow  posterity  to  say  of  us,  '  The  town  of  Berlin 
left  the  noblest  of  her  citizens  to  perish  in  want  and 
misery/  '; 

"  It  will  be  well  for  me  if  posterity  should  say  so, 
for  then  my  name  and  my  honor  will  be  saved." 

"  But  the  magistracy  will  be  delighted  to  be  able  to 
show  its  gratitude  toward  you." 

"  And  the  Jews  will  be  delighted,  too,"  cried  Itzig. 
"  The  Jews  are  ready  to  help  you." 

Gotzkowsky  cast  an  angry  look  at  him.     "  That  is  to 


404  THE   MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

say,  you  have  calculated  that  it  will  not  profit  you  if  I 
do  fail.  You  have  large  drafts  on  me,  and  if  I  fail,  you 
only  get  a  portion  of  your  debt;  whereas,  if  I  stand,  you 
get  the  whole.  You  would  be  magnanimous  from  self- 
interest,  but  I  do  not  accept  your  magnanimity — you 
shall  lose.  Let  that  be  your  punishment,  and  my  re- 
venge. You  have  wounded  my  heart  unto  death,  there- 
fore I  will  strike  you  on  the  only  spot  in  which  you  are 
sensitive  to  pain:  I  attack  your  greed  of  money.  Yrou 
come  too  late;  I  am  bankrupt!  My  drafts  are  no  longer 
current,  but  my  honor  will  not  die  with  my  firm/' 

They  were  all  silent,  and  gazed  down  to  the  earth 
frowningly.  Only  one  looked  toward  Gotzkowsky  with 
a  clear,  bright  eye.  This  was  Ephraim,  who,  mindful 
of  his  conversation  with  Gotzkowsky,  said  to  himself, 
triumphantly,  "  He  has  taken  one  lesson  from  me — he 
has  learned  to  despise  mankind." 

But  Itzig  was  only  the  more  furious.  "  You  wish 
our  ruin,"  said  he,  angrily.  "  You  will  be  ungrateful. 
The  Jews,  who  made  you  a  present  of  a  handsome  ring, 
have  not  deserved  that  of  you.  What  will  the  world 
say?" 

"  The  world  will  learn  the  cause  of  my  ruin,  and 
condemn  you,"  said  Gotzkowsky.  "  Go,  take  all  that  I 
have;  I  will  reserve  nothing;  I  despise  riches  and  estate. 
I  wish  to  be  poor;  for  in  poverty  is  peace.  I  turn  my 
back  upon  this  house,  and  I  take  nothing  with  me  but 
this  laurel-wreath  and  you,  my  children." 

Smilingly  he  gave  his  hands  to  Bertram  and  Elise. 
"  Come,  my  children!  let  us  wander  out  in  the  happiness 
of  poverty.  We  shake  the  dust  from  our  feet,  and  are 
light  and  free,  for  though  we  are  poor,  we  are  rich  in 
love.  Yes,  we  are  poor;  but  poverty  means  freedom. 
We  are  no  longer  dependent  upon  prejudices,  conven- 


THE  MERCHANT  OF   BERLIN.  405 

tionalities,  and  forms.  We  have  nothing  more  to  con- 
ceal or  hide.  We  need  not  be  ashamed  of  our  poverty, 
for  we  dare  to  show  it  to  all  the  world;  and  when  we  go 
through  the  streets  as  ragged  beggars,  these  rich  people 
will  cast  down  their  eyes  in  shame,  for  our  poverty  will 
accuse  them,  and  our  rags  testify  against  them.  Come, 
my  children,  let  us  begin  our  life  of  poverty.  But  when 
death  comes  to  take  me  away,  crown  my  cold  brow  with 
this  laurel-wreath,  given  me  by  the  city  of  Berlin,  and 
write  on  my  coffin :  *  This  is  the  world's  reward ! '  "  * 

And  firm  and  erect,  leaning  on  his  children,  Gotz- 
kowsky  crossed  the  room.  No  one  dared  to  detain  him. 
Shame  and  remorse,  anger  and  terror,  kept  them  all 
spell-bound.  "  Let  us  go,  let  us  go;  I  have  a  horror  of 
this  house,  and  this  splendor  sickens  me." 

"  Yes!  let  us  go,"  said  Elise,  throwing  her  arms 
around  her  father's  neck.  They  went  out  into  the  street. 
How  refreshing  did  the  cool  air  seem  to  them,  and  how 
soft  and  sweet  did  the  calm  blue  sky  look  down  upon 
them!  Gotzkowsky  gazed  up  at  it.  He  did  not  per- 
ceive the  multitude  of  people  which  stood  before  his  own 
door,  or  rather  he  did  not  wish  to  see  them,  because  he 
took  them  for  a  portion  of  the  idle,  curious  populace, 
which  follows  misfortune  everywhere,  and  finds  a  spec- 
tacle for  the  amusement  of  its  ennui  in  the  suffering  of 
others. 

But  for  this  once,  Gotzkowsky  was  mistaken;  it  was 
indeed  only  poor  people  who  were  standing  in  the 
street,  but  their  countenances  bore  the  marks  of  sym- 
pathy, and  their  looks  were  sad.  They  had  heard  of 
his  misfortunes,  and  had  hastened  hither,  not  from 
curiosity,  but  from  interest  in  him.  They  were  only 
factory-hands,  to  whom  Gotzkowsky  had  been  bene- 

*  With  these  words  Gotzkowsky  closes  his  autobiograpir,. 


406  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

factor,  friend,  and  adviser;  they  were  the  poor  whom  he 
had  supported  and  comforted,  who  now  stood  before  his 
house,  to  bid  him  a  last  farewell.  To  be  sure,  they 
could  render  him  no  assistance — they  had  no  money,  no 
treasures — but  they  brought  their  love  with  their  tears. 

At  the  head  of  the  workmen  stood  Balthazar,  with 
his  young  wife,  and  although  his  eyes  were  dimmed  with 
tears,  he  still  recognized  his  master  who  had  done  him 
so  much  kindness;  and  although  his  breast  was  stifled 
with  grief,  yet  he  controlled  himself,  and  cried  out, 
"  Long  live  Gotzkowsky,  our  father!  " 

"  Hurrah  for  Gotzkowsky!  Long  may  he  live! " 
cried  the  crowd,  not  jubilantly,  but  in  a  sad  tone,  half 
smothered  by  tears. 

Gotzkowsky's  countenance  beamed  with  joy,  and 
with  a  grateful  smile  he  stretched  out  his  hand  to  Bal- 
thazar. "  I  thank  you,  my  friend,"  he  said;  "  you  have 
often  shouted  in  compliment  to  me,  but  never  has  it 
given  me  so  much  pleasure  as  to-day." 

"  Never  has  it  been  done  more  cordially  and  sincere- 
ly," said  Balthazar,  pressing  Gotzkowsky's  hand  to  his 
lips.  "  You  have  always  been  a  father  and  a  friend  to 
us,  and  we  have  often  been  sorry  that  you  were  so  rich 
and  powerful  that  we  could  not  show  you  how  dear  you 
were  to  us.  Now  that  you  are  no  longer  rich,  we  can 
prove  that  we  love  you,  for  we  can  work  for  you.  We 
have  come  to  an  agreement  among  ourselves.  Each  of 
us  will  give  one  working-day  in  the  week,  and  the  pro- 
ceeds shall  go  to  you,  and  as  there  are  one  hundred  and 
seventy  of  us  workmen,  you  shall  at  least  not  starve, 
Father  Gotzkowsky." 

Gotzkowsky  looked  at  him  with  eyes  glistening  with 
pleasure.  "I  thank  you,  my  friends,"  said  he,  deeply 
moved;  "and  if  I  do  not  accept  your  offer  you  must 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  407 

not  think  that  I  do  not  appreciate  its  greatness  or  its 
beauty.  Who  can  say  that  I  am  poor  when  you  love 
me,  my  children  ?  " 

At  that  moment,  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  door. 
Bertram  had  brought  it  to  convey  them  to  their  new  and 
modest  residence. 

"  Are  you  going,  then,  to  leave  us  forever  ?  "  said 
Balthazar  mournfully. 

"  No,  my  children,  I  remain  among  you,  in  the  midst 
of  you.  I  am  only  going  to  exchange  this  large  house 
for  a  smaller  one." 

"  Come,"  cried  Balthazar,  "  come,  my  friends,  we  will 
escort  our  father,  Gotzkowsky,  to  his  new  house.  The 
town  of  Berlin  shall  see  that  only  rich  people  are  ungrate- 
ful, and  that  the  poor  never  forget  their  benefactor  and 
their  friend.  Come,  let  us  take  out  the  horses.  We  will 
draw  Father  Gotzkowsky  through  the  streets." 

The  crowd  answered  with  a  thundering  hurrah;  and 
with  busy  haste  they  proceeded  to  the  work.  The  horses 
were  unharnessed,  and  twelve  of  the  most  powerful 
workmen  crowded  around  the  pole.  In  vain  did  Gotz- 
kowsky beg  them  to  refrain,  not  to  make  him  an  object 
of  general  curiosity.  But  the  people  paid  no  heed  to  his 
request — it  was  a  necessity  to  their  hearts  to  give  him 
a  public  proof  of  their  love.  Almost  by  force  they  raised 
him  into  the  carriage,  and  compelled  Bertram  and  Elise, 
who  had  mixed  with  the  crowd  for  the  purpose  of  escap- 
ing attention,  to  take  their  seats  beside  him.  And  now 
the  procession  advanced.  Women  and  workmen  went 
on  before,  rejoicing  and  jumping  about  merrily  at  the 
side  of  the  carriage;  and  when  they  met  other  work- 
men, these  latter  stopped  and  waved  their  hats,  and 
greeted  Gotzkowsky,  calling  him  the  great  factory-lord, 
the  father  of  his  workmen,  the  benefactor  of  Berlin. 


408  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

Especially  when  the  procession  came  to  the  low  houses 
and  the  poor  cottages,  the  small  dusty  windows  were 
thrown  open,  and  sun-browned  faces  looked  out,  and 
toil-hardened  hands  greeted  and  waved. 

The  forsaken,  the  ruined  Gotzkowsky  celebrated  this 
day  a  splendid  triumph.  The  jubilant  voice  that  thus 
did  him  homage  was  that  of  the  people — and  the  voice 
of  the  people  is  the  voice  of  God! 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

THE   AUCTION. 

ALL  was  now  over — the  curtain  had  fallen:  Gotz- 
kowsky had  run  his  brilliant  career,  and  retired  into 
oblivion.  His  fall  was  for  some  days  the  topic  of  con- 
versation of  the  good  Berliners;  but  it  was  soon  super- 
seded by  some  other  novelty,  and  without  either  sym- 
pathy or  ill-feeling  they  passed  by  the  deserted  house 
with  the  closed  windows  which  had  once  been  Gotz- 
kowsky's  residence.  The  king  had  purchased  it,  in 
order  to  carry  on,  at  the  expense  of  the  royal  govern- 
ment, the  porcelain  factory  which  Gotzkowsky  had 
founded. 

Months  had  passed  by.  How  many  changes  had 
taken  place  in  this  short  space  of  time!  How  many 
tears  had  been  shed  there,  how  many  hopes  destroyed! 

Elise  had  become  Bertram's  wife;  and  she  lived  with 
him  in  the  small,  quiet  residence  which  they  had  selected 
in  the  most  remote  quarter  of  the  town.  The  three  had 
entered  the  low,  narrow  rooms,  which  were  to  be  their 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  409 

home,  with  the  firm  determination  not  to  let  themselves 
be  annoyed  by  such  slight  material  privation  as  they 
might  have  to  endure,  but  to  pass  them  over  with  cheer- 
ful equanimity  and  proud  indifference,  consoling  them- 
selves with  the  conviction  that  no  one  could  rob  them  of 
their  great  and  pure  love.  And  besides  this,  their  honor 
and  their  reputation  were  untouched,  for  every  one  was 
acquainted  with  Gotzkowsky's  fate,  every  one  knew 
that  he  had  not  fallen  through  his  own  fault,  but 
through  the  force  of  circumstances,  and  the  baseness  of 
mankind. 

He  might  have  cause  of  complaint  against  the  world, 
it  had  none  against  him.  With  his  creditors  he  had 
been  honest.  All  that  he  possessed  he  had  given  up  to 
them,  and  they  were  all  satisfied.  With  proud  step  and 
unbent  head  could  he  pass  through  the  streets,  for  no  one 
dared  to  follow  him  with  insulting  words.  Nor  had  he 
need  to  be  ashamed  of  his  poverty,  for  it  was  in  itself  a 
proof  not  only  of  his  unmerited  misfortune,  but  of  his 
integrity.  All  this  he  said  and  repeated  to  himself 
daily,  and  yet  it  pained  him  to  go  through  the  streets, 
feeling  solitary  and  downcast.  His  eyes  even  filled  with 
tears,  as  one  day  passing  by  his  bouse  he  saw  the  gates 
open,  and  equipages,  as  in  former  days,  at  his  door,  while 
genteel  and  rich  people,  with  cold,  apathetic  counte- 
nances, were  entering  his  house  as  they  had  done  of 
yore.  Formerly  they  came  to  Gotzkowsky's  splendid 
dinners,  now  they  had  come  to  the  auction.  The 
fauteuils  and  velvet-covered  sofas,  the  carpets  and  gold- 
embroidered  curtains,  the  chandeliers  of  bronze  and  rock 
crystal,  the  paintings  and  statuary,  the  silver  table-ware, 
and  the  costly  porcelain  service,  all  these  were  now  ex- 
posed for  sale. 

There  is  something  sad  and  mournful   about   an 


410  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

auction.  It  speaks  always  of  the  ruin  and  breaking  up 
of  a  man's  life  and  the  happiness  of  his  family,  of  the 
wreck  of  a  shattered  existence,  and  the  sad  remains  of 
what  was  once,  perhaps,  a  brilliant  destiny.  On  the 
day  of  an  auction  there  ceases  to  be  a  home,  the  sacred 
secrets  of  family  life  vanish;  home  is  no  longer  the 
abode  of  peace,  and  the  long-cherished  penates  hide  their 
heads  in  grief. 

Then  the  gates  are  opened,  and  the  curious  multi- 
tude rushes  in,  and  with  callous  eye  spies  into  each  corner 
and  every  room;  tries  the  sofas  on  which,  perhaps,  yester- 
day some  poor  widow  sat  weeping  for  her  lost  husband; 
throws  itself  down  on  the  bed  which  once  had  been  the 
sacred  temple  of  their  love;  and  coldly  and  unfeelingly 
examines  the  furniture  of  parlor  and  boudoir,  which  yet 
retains  the  appearance  of  comfort  and  of  genial  repose, 
though  soon  to  be  scattered  to  the  winds,  to  proclaim 
aloud  its  sad  and  secret  story  in  the  gaudy  show-room  of 
some  second-hand  dealer.  All  the  beauty  and  splendor 
of  Gotzkowsky's  former  days  were  now  to  be  displayed 
at  auction.  For  this  reason  there  stood  so  many  car- 
riages before  his  door;  for  this  reason  did  so  many  noble 
and  wealthy  persons  come  to  his  house,  and,  mixed  with 
brokers  and  speculators,  crowd  into  those  halls,  which 
they  had  formerly  trod  with  friendly  smiles  and  in  cost- 
ly dresses. 

No  one  took  any  heed  of  the  figure  of  a  man  crouch- 
ing, leaning  against  the  staircase,  with  his  hat  pressed 
down  over  his  brow,  and  the  collar  of  his  cloak  drawn  up 
high  over  his  face.  No  one  perceived  how  he  shuddered 
when  the  auctioneer  handled  the  beautiful  articles  and 
called  on  the  public  to  bid.  It  was  to  him  a  terrible 
grief  to  assist  at  these  obsequies  of  his  past  life,  and  yet 
he  could  not  tear  himself  away.  He  felt  fascinated,  as 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

it  were,  by  some  supernatural  power,  and  forced  to  re- 
main in  the  house  and  attend  this  horrible  cere- 
mony. In  the  tediousness  of  his  lonesome,  inactive,  idle 
misery,  it  was  a  species  of  diversion  to  him,  something 
to  arouse  him  from  his  dull  rumination,  to  be  pres- 
ent at  this  disintegration  and  demolition  of  his  own 
house. 

As  Jeremiah  once  sat  among  the  ruins  of  Jerusalem, 
so  sat  Gotzkowsky  with  concealed  face  at  the  threshold 
of  his  house,  listening  with  savage  joy  to  the  strokes  of 
the  auctioneer's  hammer — albeit  each  blow  struck  him 
to  the  heart,  and  made  its  wounds  smart  still  more  keen- 
ly. At  times,  when  a  well-known  voice  fell  on  his  ear, 
he  would  raise  his  head  a  little,  and  look  at  the  bidders, 
and  examine  their  cold,  unsympathizing  faces.  How 
many  were  there  among  them  whom  he  had  once  called 
his  friends,  and  to  whom  he  had  done  good!  And  now, 
like  vultures,  they  flocked  to  the  carcass  of  his  past; 
they  bought  his  treasures,  while  their  eyes  glistened 
with  malicious  joy.  They  were  delighted  to  be  able 
to  boast  that  they  possessed  a  souvenir  of  the  rich  Gotz- 
kowsky. 

When  Gotzkowsky  saw  this,  he  felt  ashamed  that  he 
had  once  smiled  lovingly  on  these  men,  had  confided  in 
them,  and  believed  in  their  assurances  of  friendship.  He 
rose  to  leave,  feeling  himself  refreshed  and  strengthened, 
for  his  depression  and  grief  had  left  him.  Never  had 
he  walked  the  streets  more  proudly  than  on  the  day 
when  he  returned  from  the  auction  to  his  dark,  lowly 
dwelling.  Never  had  he  looked  upon  mankind  with 
greater  pity  or  more  bitter  scorn.  And  yet  it  pained 
him  to  reenter  this  dismal,  quiet  house,  and  to  force  him- 
self back  into  the  ennui  and  indolence  of  his  inactive 
life.  It  was  such  a  sensitive,  burning  pain,  so,  in  the 


412  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

fulness  of  his  strength  and  manhood  to  be  condemned  to 
do  nothing  more  than  drag  on  a  weary  existence — to 
sleep,  to  eat,  and  to  dream  of  the  past!  And  yet  he 
would  repeat  to  himself,  he  was  strong  and  active  to 
work  and  create;  and  nevertheless,  he  was  condemned 
to  idleness,  to  live  by  the  favor  and  toil  of  others,  even 
if  these  others  were  his  children. 

But  they  worked  for  him  with  so  much  pleasure 
and  so  much  love!  Bertram  had  accepted  the  situation 
of  book-keeper  in  a  large  factory,  and  his  salary  was 
sufficient  to  support  the  three.  To  be  sure,  they  had 
to  manage  carefully,  and  provide  scantily  enough.  But 
Elise  was  active  and  notable;  though  as  the  spoilt  child 
of  wealth,  she  had,  indeed,  been  able  to  learn  nothing 
of  those  minor  offices  of  life  which  are  called  by  women 
"  housekeeping."  Still  the  instinct  of  her  sex  had  en- 
abled her  soon  to  acquire  this  knowledge,  and  in  a  short 
time  she  became  mistress  of  it.  It  was,  indeed,  a  pleas- 
ant sight  to  see  Elise,  with  the  same  quiet  cheerfulness, 
acting  at  one  moment  the  part  of  cook  in  the  kitchen, 
at  another  setting  her  little  chamber  to  rights  with  busy 
hands,  and  making  amends  in  cleanliness  and  neatness 
for  what  was  wanting  in  elegance  and  beauty.  True, 
she  was  altered,  but  never  since  she  had  been  Bertram's 
wife  had  her  brow  been  darkened  or  her  eye  dimmed. 
Her  face  was  always  bright  and  clear:  for  her  husband, 
when  he  returned  home,  she  had  always  a  smile  of  wel- 
come, a  cordial  greeting — never  a  word  of  complaint  or 
of  mourning  over  the  privations  she  was  obliged  to  un- 
dergo, or  the  wealth  she  had  lost.  Elise  felt  rich — for 
she  loved  her  husband;  not  with  that  ardent,  consuming 
passion  which  she  had  once  felt,  and  which  had  been  the 
cause  of  so  much  disappointment  and  so  many  tears; 
but  with  that  gentle,  affectionate  flame  which  never  dies 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  413 

out,  but  is  constantly  supplied  and  nourished  by  esteem 
and  appreciation. 

Bertram  was  no  longer  her  brother;  he  was  her  be- 
loved, her  friend,  her  counsellor,  and  comforter,  above 
all.  With  him  she  was  always  certain  to  be  understood 
and  appreciated,  to  find  comfort  and  help.  As  on  a  rock, 
she  could  now  rely  on  the  noble  heart  of  one  who  was  at 
the  same  time  so  firm,  and  yet  so  soft  in  loving,  that  he 
had  never  doubted  her,  never  turned  away  from  her. 
Her  whole  heart  was  given  up  to  him  in  gratitude 
and  affection,  and  with  her  whole  life  did  she  wish  to 
reward  him  for  his  noble  love,  for  the  self-sacrificing 
gratitude  with  which  he  had  given  up  his  entire  fortune 
to  her  father,  and  saved  the  name  and  honor  of  his  house 
from  disgrace  and  shame.  She  desired  neither  splendor 
nor  jewels.  Surrounded  by  the  halo  of  her  love,  and  of 
her  quiet,  peaceful  happiness,  this  poor,  little  dwelling 
seemed  to  her  as  a  temple  of  peace  and  of  holy  rest;  and, 
locked  in  Bertram's  embrace,  her  wishes  never  reached 
beyond  its  narrow  sphere. 

But  Gotzkowsky  was  not  as  yet  able  to  attain  this 
resignation.  This  repose  was  to  him  an  annihilating 
torment,  and  the  inactive  vegetation  a  living  death. 
With  each  day  the  torture  increased,  the  soreness  of  his 
heart  became  more  corroding  and  painful.  At  times  he 
felt  as  if  he  must  scream  out  aloud  in  the  agony  of  his 
despair.  He  would  strike  his  chest  with  his  clinched 
fists,  and  cry  to  God  in  the  overflow  of  his  sufferings. 
He  who  his  whole  life  long  had  been  active,  was  now 
condemned  to  idleness;  he  who  through  his  whole  life  had 
worked  for  others,  was  now  obliged  to  lay  his  hands  in 
his  lap,  and  allow  others  to  labor  for  him.  How  had  he 
deserved  this?  What  crime  had  he  committed,  that 
after  he  had  toiled  and  worked  honestly,  he  should  go 
27 


4-14  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

down,  whilst  others  who  had  enriched  themsebes  by 
fraud  and  lying,  by  cunning  and  malice,  should  drive 
through  the  streets  in  splendid  carriages,  surrounded  by 
elegance  and  wealth,  while  he  was  obliged  to  creep  along, 
bowed  down  with  sorrow?  He  had  gone  down,  while 
Ephraim  had  risen  higher  and  higher.  He  had  become 
poor  because  he  was  honest;  but  Ephraim  had  grown 
rich  on  usury.  His  firm  had  failed,  while  Ephraim  con- 
tinued to  coin  money.  What  did  the  Jew  care  that  his 
name  was  branded  by  the  people,  that  they  spoke  with 
cutting  sarcasm  of  the  pewter-money  to  which  he  had  so 
skilfully  imparted  the  appearance  of  silver  coin,  and  that 
he  was  derided  by  all?  Gotzkowsky's  name,  too,  had 
been  scoffed  at,  and  he  had  been  a  benefactor  of  the 
people,  while  Ephraim  had  been  their  blood-sucking 
leech. 

At  last,  Gotzkowsky  came  to  a  firm  determination 
that  he  would  have  revenge — yes,  revenge  on  this  un- 
grateful generation  which  had  betrayed  and  forsaken 
him — revenge  on  the  men  who  had  shown  themselves 
so  small  and  pitiful.  He  wanted  to  remind  those  who 
were  flourishing  in  pride  and  splendor,  of  their  meanness 
and  ingratitude.  He  would  accuse  no  one,  but  his  whole 
life  was  an  indictment,  not  against  individual  men,  but 
whole  communities  and  cities,  against  the  king  himself. 
They  had  all  been  ungrateful  toward  him.  They  were 
all  his  debtors,  and  in  presence  of  the  whole  world  he 
would  cast  their  ingratitude,  their  meanness,  their  mal- 
ice, and  knavery  in  their  face,  and  humble  them  by  re- 
calling the  past.  He  wrote  for  that  purpose  The  His- 
tory of  Ms  Life,  not  in  anger  and  scorn;  he  did  not  dip 
his  pen  in  gall,  he  made  no  ill-natured  reflections,  no 
contemptuous  remarks.  He  did  nothing  more  than 
quietly  and  simply,  clearly  and  truthfully,  describe  his 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  415 

life  and  his  deeds,  and  whenever  it  was  necessary,  con- 
firm his  assertions  by  quotations  from  the  official  docu- 
ments relating  thereto.* 

The  very  simplicity  and  truthfulness  of  this  "  Biog- 
raphy of  a  Patriotic  Merchant "  procured  for  it  an  enor- 
mous success,  and  made  the  long-forgotten,  much-calum- 
niated Gotzkowsky  for  a  while  the  topic  of  conversa- 
tion, not  only  in  Berlin,  but  throughout  all  Germany. 
Every  one  wanted  to  read  the  book.  All  wished  to  have 
the  malicious  pleasure  of  seeing  how  much  people  of 
rank,  communities,  cities,  and  princes,  were  indebted  to 
this  man,  and  how  pitilessly  they  had  let  him  sink. 

The  natural  consequence  was  that  the  book,  though 
written  simply  and  with  reserve,  gave  great  offence.  Gotz- 
kowsky had  accused  no  one,  but  the  facts  accused.  His 
present  poverty  and  need  condemned  the  proud,  high- 
born people,  and  showed  to  the  world  their  cold-hearted- 

*  His  biography  begins  in  these  words :  "  I  know  that  I  subject 
myself  to  a  variety  of  judgments.  How  ridiculous  will  I  appear  in 
the  eyes  of  many,  because  I  did  not  use  my  fortune  for  my  own 
benefit !  They  will  say,  '  A  man  who  pretends  to  know  the  world,  a 
merchant,  furthermore,  whose  principal  merit  is  to  make  himself 
rich,  and  found  a  great  house,  gives  so  little  heed  to  self-interest, 
and  entertains  dreams  of  humanity  and  benevolence,  hardly  par- 
donable in  a  philosopher.  Others,  again,  will  deem  my  acts  too 
good-natured,  improvident,  or  vain,  as  usually  happens,  when  such 
are  considered  from  a  point  of  view  different  from  the  actual  one. 
But  as  long  as  I  am  convinced  that  I  have  acted  as  a  true  Chris- 
tian and  an  honest  patriot,  I  can  despise  all  these  criticisms.  1 
would  not  act  otherwise,  if  I  had  my  whole  life  to  live  over  again. 
But  I  would  be  more  prudent,  as  I  am  better  acquainted  with  the 
character  of  those  in  whom  I  confided  most.  The  peace  of  mind 
and  cheerfulness  which  innocence  and  the  consciousness  of  good 
deeds  impart,  are  too  perceptible  to  me,  to  allow  me  to  hesitate  for 
a  moment  between  the  demands  of  selfishness  and  those  of  hu- 
manity." 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN. 

ness  and  miserable  conduct.  He  had  not  exposed  in- 
dividuals  to  the  judgment  of  the  world;  no — his  book 
accused  the  whole  magistracy  of  Berlin  of  deeds  of  in- 
gratitude; and  it  even  included  the  king,  for  whom  he 
had  bought  a  hundred  thousand  ducats'  worth  of  pic- 
tures, and  who  had  only  paid  him  back  a  hundred  and 
fifty  thousand  dollars. 

If  his  book  had  contained  the  smallest  untruth,  if 
there  had  been  the  least  false  statement  in  it,  they  would 
have  stigmatized  him  as  a  calumniator  and  scandalizer 
of  majesty.  But  Gotzkowsky  had  only  told  the  truth. 
They  could  not,  therefore,  punish  him  as  a  false  witness 
or  slanderer.  Consequently  they  had  to  content  them- 
selves with  suppressing  "  The  Life  of  a  Patriotic  Mer- 
chant." 

The  booksellers  in  Berlin  were  therefore  ordered  to 
give  up  all  the  copies,  and  even  Gotzkowsky  received 
an  order  to  return  those  in  his  possession.  He  did  so; 
he  gave  up  the  book  to  the  authorities,  who  persecuted 
him  because  they  had  cause  to  blush  before  him;  but  his 
memory  he  could  not  surrender.  His  memory  remained 
faithful  to  him,  and  was  his  support  and  consolation, 
whenever  he  felt  ready  to  despair;  this  made  him  proud 
in  his  misfortune,  and  free  in  the  bonds  of  poverty.  And 
now  they  were  really  poor;  and  penury,  with  all  its  hor- 
rors, its  humiliations  and  sufferings,  crept  in  upon  them. 

Gotzkowsky's  book  had  awakened  all  those  who  en- 
vied and  hated  him,  and  they  vowed  his  ruin.  It  showed 
how  much  the  merchants  of  Berlin  were  indebted  to  him, 
and  how  little  of  this  indebtedness  they  had  cancelled. 
It  was  therefore  an  accusation  against  the  wealthy  mer- 
chants of  Berlin,  against  which  they  could  not  defend 
themselves,  but  for  which  they  could  wreak  revenge. 
Not  on  him,  for  he  had  nothing  they  could  take  from 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  417 

him — no  wealth,  no  name,  no  credit,  and,  in  their  mer- 
cantile eyes,  no  honor.  But  they  revenged  themselves 
on  his  family — on  his  son-in-law.  The  rich  factory-lord, 
whose  book-keeper  Bertram  had  been,  deprived  him  of 
his  situation;  and  in  consequence  of  a  preconcerted  ar- 
rangement, he  could  find  no  situation  elsewhere.  How 
could  he  now  support  his  family?  He  was  willing  to 
work  his  fingers  to  the  bone  for  his  wife,  for  his  father, 
for  his  child,  who  looked  up  so  lovingly  to  him  with  its 
large,  clear,  innocent  eyes,  and  dreamt  not  of  the  anxiety 
of  its  father,  nor  of  the  sighs  which  told  of  the  anguish 
of  its  young  mother.  But  nowhere  could  he  procure 
employment — nowhere  was  there  a  situation  for  the  son- 
in-law  of  Gotzkowsky,  who  had  accused  the  merchants, 
the  magistrates,  yea,  even  the  king!  And  now  they  were 
indeed  poor,  for  they  had  no  work;  but,  condemned  to 
inactivity,  to  comfortless  brooding,  they  shudderingly 
asked  themselves  what  was  to  become  of  them — how  this 
life  of  privation  was  to  end. 

But  while  Bertram  and  Elise  remained  sad  and  dis- 
pirited, Gotzkowsky  suddenly  brightened  up.  For  a 
long  time  he  had  walked  up  and  down  in  silent  thought. 
Now,  of  a  sudden,  his  countenance  assumed  the  cheerful 
expression  of  former  days,  and  energetic  self-reliance 
was  expressed  in  his  features.  Elise  looked  on  with  as- 
tonishment. He  drew  out  from  his  chest  the  last  re- 
mains of  by-gone  days,  the  silver  oak- wreath  set  with 
diamonds,  presented  him  by  the  town  of  Berlin,  and  the 
golden  goblet  given  by  the  town  of  Leipsic.  He  looked 
at  them  for  a  long  time  attentively,  and  then  went  out, 
leaving  Elise  alone,  to  weep  and  pray  to  God  to  send 
them  help,  and  to  console  Bertram  when  he  came  home 
from  his  fruitless  search  after  a  situation. 

It  was  some  hours  before  Gotzkowsky  returned,  but 


418  THE  MERCHANT  OF  BEELIN. 

his  countenance  still  retained  its  cheerfulness,  and  his 
features  exhibited  the  energy  and  activity  of  past  days. 
He  stretched  out  his  hands  to  both  of  his  children,  and 
drew  them  affectionately  toward  him  and  embraced 
them.  "  Are  we  then  really  poor,  possessing  one  an- 
other? I  say  that  we  are  still  rich,  for  our  hearts  are 
yet  warm,  and  our  honor  is  not  yet  lost.  But  we  have 
not  yet  learned  to  bear  the  indigence  of  our  outer  life. 
We  have  covered  our  poverty  with  the  gloss  of  respecta- 
bility; we  have  been  ashamed  to  appear  in  the  streets 
in  coarse  clothes;  we  have  not  yet  learned  to  distinguish 
the  necessary  from  the  superfluous;  we  have  endeavored 
to  be  poor,  and  yet  happy,  in  a  city.  That  has  been  our 
mistake.  The  happiness  of  poverty  does  not  reside  with- 
in the  cold  walls  of  a  town.  It  is  not  sown  among  the 
paving-stones  of  a  street.  It  is  only  in  Nature,  who  is 
rich  enough  to  nourish  and  give  to  all  those  who  trust- 
ingly cast  themselves  on  her  bosom — only  in  Nature, 
and  the  privacy  of  country  life,  that  we  can  find  rest 
and  peace.  Come,  my  children,  let  us  leave  this  town; 
let  us  have  the  courage  to  become  children  of  Nature 
and  free  citizens  of  poverty.  Let  us  cast  the  show  and 
glitter  of  a  city  life  behind  us,  and  wander  forth,  not 
over  the  sea  nor  into  the  desert,  but  to  a  cottage  in  a 
wood.  I  have  stripped  off  the  last  vestige  of  the  past, 
and  the  silver  wreath  and  the  golden  goblet  have  been  of 
some  use,  for  they  have  furnished  us  the  means  to  found 
a  new  existence.  Bertram,  have  you  the  courage  to 
commence  life  anew  and  become  a  peasant?  " 

Bertram  smiled.  "  I  have  both  the  courage  and  the 
strength,  for  I  am  hearty  and  able  to  work." 

"  And  you,  Elise,  are  you  not  too  proud  to  bring  up 
your  child  as  a  peasant  ?  " 

Elise  kissed  her  child,  and  handed  him  to  her  father. 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  BERLIN.  419 

"  Let  us  bring  him  up  to  be  a  good  and  healthy  man — a 
man  like  you  and  his  father,  and  he  will  overcome  the 
world  and  poverty,  and  be  happy." 

"  Oh!  I  well  knew  that  I  could  count  upon  you;  and 
now  I  know  how  we  all  can  be  helped.  We  are  rich 
enough  to  buy,  in  some  corner  of  the  world,  a  little  piece 
of  land  that  we  can  cultivate,  and  on  which  we  can  build 
a  cottage.  The  product  of  my  valuables  is  sufficient  for 
that  purpose;  and  what  we  can  realize  from  these  articles 
of  furniture  will  be  sufficient  to  defray  our  travelling  ex- 
penses. Get  ready,  then,  children;  to-morrow  we  leave  for 
Silesia.  In  the  mountains  there  we  will  look  out  some 
quiet,  secluded  valley,  where  the  newly-made  peasants 
can  build  them  a  cottage.  There  we  will  forget  the  past, 
and  cast  all  its  sufferings  behind  us;  or  if  we  do  speak  of 
them,  it  will  be  as  of  the  tales  of  our  childhood.  Come, 
my  children,  let  us  return  to  Nature,  God,  and  content- 
ment. Do  you  remember,  Elise,  how  I  once  related  to 
you  that  as  a  lad  I  once  lay  hungry  and  wretched  on  the 
high-road?  The  hand  which  was  then  stretched  out  to 
me  did  not  proceed  out  of  the  cloud,  but  from  heaven. 
It  was  not  the  consolation  of  an  alms  that  it  gave  me, 
but  the  comforting  assurance  of  love  which  raised  me 
up  and  strengthened  me,  directing  my  looks  to  God,  and 
teaching  me  to  love  Him  in  all  His  works.  God  dwells 
and  speaks  in  Nature.  Let  us  seek  Him  there,  and  serve 
Him  in  the  sweat  of  our  brow  and  in  the  coarse  peasant's 
frock.  ........ 

And  they  went,  and  did  as  Gotzkowsky  said.  They 
moved  to  Silesia,  and  bought  themselves  there,  among 
the  mountains,  a  piece  of  land  and  a  cottage,  in  which 
they  led  a  quiet,  retired,  happy  life.  The  world  forgot 
them.  Gotzkowsky's  name  passed  into  oblivion.  But 
history  preserved  it,  and  still  holds  him  up  as  an  ex- 


420  THE  MERCHANT   OF  BERLIN. 

ample,  not  only  of  the  most  noble  patriotism,  "but  also 
of  the  ingratitude  of  men.  His  book,  too,  is  left  us, 
and  bears  witness  for  him.  But  as  we  read  it,  we  be- 
come sad,  and  are  ready  to  cry  out,  as  he  does,  "  This  is 
the  world's  reward! " 


(40) 


THE    END. 


•i 


